Somebody Stop Ivy Pocket (16 page)

My head flew back. How could it not? The female guard had grabbed me by the hair and yanked me with force. The keys were snatched from my hand. I struggled valiantly, but in no time I was once again being dragged down the hall.

‘Justice Hallow can deal with you now,’ said the brute, sniggering coldly.

‘Don’t let them take you, Ivy,’ cried Rebecca. ‘Whatever you do, don’t let them take you!’

‘It seems I haven’t a choice in the matter, dear!’ I called back.

‘Ivy, you control it!’ Rebecca shouted. ‘You got here and you can leave the same way.’

‘Shut your mouth, Butterfield, if you know what’s good for you!’ snarled the lady baboon.

‘But how?’ I cried.

‘You lifted the veil …’ My friend’s voice was growing weak. ‘You lifted it, now bring it down. Bring it down, Ivy.’

We were at the stairs now, and they were frogmarching me down the first flight. That’s when I let my arms slacken. My legs turn to jelly. I wasn’t really sure what I was doing; I just knew that I had London in my mind. And Rebecca in my heart. So I let it all go.

I heard one of the guards cry out. Something like, ‘Hold her, you fool!’

‘I’m trying,’ came the anxious reply.

The stairs began to buckle, rising and falling, like an ocean tide. Then their arms, indeed their whole bodies, simply melted away. As Prospa House began to fall, I fell with it. And it wasn’t even slightly terrifying.

I closed my eyes, arms out, and plummeted along with the building. But my landing was of the feather bed variety. All at once I felt solid ground beneath me. I think I rolled once or twice. My nightdress was damp and I was lying on the wet cobblestones of Winslow Street. Everything was just as I had left it. I got to my feet. Stood there as if in a daze.

Rebecca had been so close. Just a door separated us. But I had failed to bring her home. And Mr Blackhorn, what of him? The sound of his heartbroken sobs rang in my ears. What on earth was happening to them in Prospa House? Were they not
meant to heal those dying of The Shadow? And why did Rebecca not want to be rescued? It was all so unfair. And confusing. And sad.

As I stepped up on to the footpath, my eyes began to mist. It was just the wind. Nothing more. I took one final look at the dark void where Prospa House had been just moments before, wiped the tears from my face and headed for home.

‘Your reading was very moving, Ivy.’

‘Was it?’

Ezra nodded his head (complete with wobbly jowls) and ushered me to a seat by the shuttered window. ‘But perhaps you might ask your friend at the library for something more
uplifting
next time. Now you rest a spell while Mother Snagsby and I see to business.’

Mrs Rushmore’s liver was diseased. The doctor gave her a week. Perhaps two. She didn’t want to trouble her family with funeral arrangements and whatnot, so she had called on the Snagsbys. The poem had gone down very well. It was Scottish, I think – about death coming in the night when you least expect it and how we are all doomed in the end. Mrs Rushmore had wailed like a fire alarm.

I am ashamed to say I didn’t read with tremendous feeling. My thoughts were crowded with the events of last night. Rebecca. The dark deeds of Prospa House. And what of Mr Blackhorn? How did
he
get there? And how was it that those
bullish guards seemed to recognise me?
She’s awake
. That’s what one of them had said. What on earth did any of it mean? Oh, it was a tangled web!

‘Here.’ Mother Snagsby was holding out a glass of warm milk.

‘I’m not thirsty.’

‘Of course you are,’ she replied firmly. ‘Mrs Rushmore has a great many questions and I haven’t time to argue.’

I took the milk. And offered something in return. ‘I’ve been wondering about Mr Blackhorn.’

‘What of him?’

‘Do you recall anything strange about his passing? Anything unusual or out of the ordinary?’

‘Such as?’

I knew I must be magnificently cagey to avoid arousing suspicion.

‘Well, who can say? Perhaps he made mention of a pressing engagement in a faraway place. Or perhaps he was slightly less dead than you thought?’ I gave Mother Snagsby my most understanding gaze. ‘Is that possible, dear? For yes, nod once. If no, continue to stare at me with withering antipathy.’

‘Mr Blackhorn’s funeral is this afternoon at two,’ she said calmly, ‘and I assure you, young lady, we do not bury the
living
at Snagsbys’ Economic Funerals.’ She pointed to the glass. ‘Drink it and button your lips.’

Mother Snagsby was soon hunched over Mrs Rushmore’s bed, whispering about what stain of casket she might prefer. Ezra was measuring the poor old woman for length. They were a harmless pair. Shrivelled as year-old raisins, but harmless.

I drank down the milk. A muddle of tangled thoughts stretched to the farthest reaches of my mind. And as I wrestled with them, something warm and utterly comforting crept over me. Like a hot-water bottle on a winter’s night. Or a generous hug. It reached up and gently pulled me down. It was too delicious to resist. So I didn’t.

When Ezra woke me up, the stone felt warm against my skin. Mrs Rushmore was now covered by a sheet. Mother Snagsby said it was a blessing. She had died suddenly and was at peace.

Miss Carnage had seen right through me.

‘You are not yourself, Ivy, there is no point denying it.’ She pulled up a chair and sat down beside me. ‘I insist you tell me what is troubling you. After all, if you cannot tell a bosom –’ She stopped abruptly. Blinked a great deal.

‘Bathroom trouble, dear?’

The librarian laughed rather enthusiastically. ‘Goodness no.
As I was saying, if you cannot confide in a
sympathetic
friend, who can you confide in?’

I had left the house before Mr Blackhorn’s viewing began. Mother Snagsby was busy making sure everything was ready – flowers, organ music, sandwiches and tea afterwards – so I was able to slip away undetected. Not that I didn’t have a perfectly good excuse to visit the library. Ezra had requested that I seek out more
uplifting
poetry. But I couldn’t pretend that that was the real reason. I hadn’t been able to look at Mrs Blackhorn when she arrived dressed in black and sobbing madly. Even her tremendous wig, which was wonderfully crooked, did nothing to lift my spirits.

‘It’s terribly complicated,’ I heard myself tell Miss Carnage.

‘Has something happened, Ivy?’ Miss Carnage had her hand on my hand. She was squeezing it most sympathetically. ‘Have you had news of your friend?’

I nodded. ‘I was able to reach her.’

The librarian gasped. ‘You did?’

‘It all happened so quickly – I went back to Winslow Street, not sure why, but it just felt right and the next thing I knew, there I was. Finding her room wasn’t easy, there were so many shades of yellow, and then those guards recognised me and it all ended rather badly.’

‘They recognised you?’

‘I think so. Oh, I don’t know.’

Miss Carnage looked awfully perplexed but she soon snapped out of it. ‘You told me that your friend was somewhere far away – but Winslow Street is in London.’

‘That was just where I departed from.’

‘How are you back so soon?’ asked the curious librarian.

‘Could only stay thirty minutes,’ I said with a shrug. ‘It’s one of the rules – though I have my doubts about several of the others.’

‘One of the rules?’ Miss Carnage gasped again, only this time her hand flew to her shockingly large chin and she stared at me in dismay. ‘It was
you
who stole Ambrose Crabtree’s manuscript from the vault, was it not? Oh, Ivy, I am bitterly disappointed – you lied to me!’

‘Highly doubtful. I’m violently honest as a general rule.’

‘Even after I warned you not to …’ The flustered creature stood up. Sat back down again. ‘You must return it this instant and promise never to meddle with such things again.’

‘Return what, dear?’

‘The manuscript that was stolen.’

‘Stolen?’

Miss Carnage nodded vigorously. ‘Stolen by you!’

‘Stolen by you? Well, I’m sure you had your reasons, let’s say no more about it.’

I was practically positive the subject was closed. The librarian felt differently. She took me by the hand into the back office. Shut the door. Sat me down at her desk and said, ‘That book has great power and is not to be trifled with – if Ambrose Crabtree’s rules are not followed to the letter, they could lead to certain death.’

The nerve! ‘Miss Carnage, while I am perfectly innocent of any crime, I can say with some confidence that if I
had
stolen the manuscript, I would find the instructions terribly easy to follow.’

Miss Carnage pushed her spectacles up her bent nose. ‘I see.’

‘And as for those silly rules, I can only suspect Mr Crabtree was drunk on rum cake when he wrote them. Some are stupendously wrong – so I’ve heard.’

‘Go on,’ said Miss Carnage, leaning forward.

‘Number seven says that when a person crosses, only their soul takes the journey and they cannot be harmed. Well, I have it on good authority that a person can be thrown about and pulled by the hair in a most unpleasant manner.’

The librarian paled. ‘Heavens.’

‘I want so much to help her, but Rebecca said …’ My voice had dropped to a whisper and I found myself looking at Miss Carnage most earnestly. ‘She said I should never come back.
That it would only make things worse for her. I must confess, dear, I am not entirely sure what I should do. I cannot leave her in that hideous place, but I couldn’t bear the thought that I was inflicting more suffering upon her by going back.’

‘You poor girl,’ said Miss Carnage with such tenderness. ‘We will not dwell on the manuscript’s whereabouts, but you are very right to heed your friend’s plea and stay away.’ She cleared her throat. ‘After all, you have done everything that can be asked of a chum. Who could blame you for giving up? I am sure Rebecca will understand.’

Despite the fact that soft-hearted Miss Carnage was trying to reassure me, it had quite the opposite effect. How could I think for one moment that it was better to leave Rebecca to her fate? It was unforgivable!

‘I’m sorry, Miss Carnage, but my friend needs me and I won’t give up on her.’

The librarian smiled faintly. ‘How brave you are, Ivy.’