Somebody Stop Ivy Pocket (8 page)

‘But I cannot imagine what Miss Always was doing here,’ I said, looking back at the grim building. ‘I think I will visit Buzzby’s Stage Emporium and see what I can discover.’

Without asking, the librarian turned me around, linked her arm in mine, and began walking with me away from the building.

‘It worries me greatly that you are wandering the streets, following this woman,’ said Miss Carnage gravely. ‘How is it that you know Miss Always?’

‘We met on a ship and became bosom friends,’ I heard myself say. ‘If we were better acquainted, I would tell you that Miss Always is a bloodthirsty gatekeeper with a talent for plunging daggers into hearts. Instead, I will simply tell you that Miss Always is a danger to society.’

Miss Carnage was dazzled by my discretion. ‘Very wise, Ivy.’

Lovely creature!

We turned the corner and headed back up the long avenue. Pausing at the Admiralty Bank, Miss Carnage explained that she had an appointment there.

‘Ivy, promise me you will be more careful,’ she said firmly. ‘I will be a hive of nerves if I think you are roaming London chasing this dangerous writer.’

From behind me I heard a screech so unpleasant it could only come from one place.

‘I do believe that strange woman just called out your name,’ said Miss Carnage.

I turned and wasn’t utterly surprised to see Mother Snagsby stomping towards me with a look of thunder upon her face.

‘That is Mother Snagsby. She frets terribly when I wander away.’

‘Do take care, Ivy. I must dash.’

Miss Carnage headed off briskly in the opposite direction. She seemed in a frightful rush, whizzing past the bank (which was odd) and disappearing around the corner – just as Mother Snagsby was within striking distance.

She was huffing and puffing with all the enthusiasm of a steam train. Expressed her delight in finding me by cursing like a pirate. Then seized me by the arm and dragged me lovingly back to the dressmaker.

There was no supper that night. Even Mrs Dickens was forbidden from visiting me with a merciful plate of pumpkin and cabbage. Mother Snagsby was appalled by my conduct. She said running from the dressmaker’s shop like a bank robber was not
the conduct of a gentleman’s daughter. All the way home in the carriage she had quizzed me about why I had run off.

I felt it was best to make no mention of Miss Always.

Adding to my troubles was the fact that Mother Snagsby had inspected the viewing parlour and now knew that I had not dusted it. I had never seen her so angry. Her nostrils flared. Her magnificent mole twitched up a storm. For my crimes I was sent immediately to bed. The door locked behind me.

Not even slightly tired, I lit a candle to ward off the darkness. This was not done because I felt spooked about seeing Miss Always. Or because I was troubled about what devious scheme she was brewing. Not a bit!

‘Ivy …’

The voice was faint. But clear.

I jumped from the bed and hurried to the door. ‘Mrs Dickens?’

Silence.

‘Perhaps you do not wish to unlock the door lest Mother Snagsby box your ears,’ I went on. ‘Perfectly understandable. But if there is any way you could slide a few raw potatoes under the door I would be very –’

‘Ivy …’

No, the voice was not coming from out in the hallway. It sounded nearby and far away all at once. I hurried across the
room, drew back the curtains and looked down on Thackeray Street. Gas lamps lined the street, their honey-coloured light arresting the darkness. A carriage rolled by. Followed by a night constable in no great hurry.

‘Ivy …’

It was maddening! Where was it coming from? A ghost, perhaps? So busy was I trying to solve this mystery that I had not noticed the warmth upon my skin. Nor the throbbing against my chest. Or the way the pulsing beats of the stone began to quicken.

The candle blew out without warning. The room was entombed in a drapery of shadows.

But it did not last. For a glorious silvery light bloomed from under my nightdress. In the short time it took me to retrieve the necklace, the Clock Diamond’s glow filled the bedroom, hitting the walls like a winter sun.

I dropped to the floor, sitting cross-legged, and stared into it. As the light started to dim inside the stone, I found her. Huddled in the corner of a bare room. Ghastly yellow walls. White floor. Her blonde hair limp and stuck to her face.

‘Ivy, don’t come,’ whispered Rebecca Butterfield.

I wanted to cry out. No, I just wanted to cry.

‘Rebecca,’ I whispered. ‘Rebecca, can you hear me?’

The girl seemed to be looking straight through the stone,
right at me. Her skin gave off the faintest of glows. ‘Forget what you saw.’ Her breaths were shallow, her eyes vacant. She looked dreadfully tired. ‘Don’t come for me, Ivy, they will be waiting.’

‘Who will be waiting, dear?’ My voice was hoarse and wretched. ‘Rebecca, where are you? Tell me where you are!’

‘You wore the stone, Ivy, you wore the stone and lived.’

Rebecca’s gaze shifted suddenly.

‘Tell me where they are keeping you,’ I cried, as loud as I dared.

Her head dropped. Her eyes closed.

‘Don’t come for me.’

Then the yellow of her room was swallowed by a hungry black mist. It churned and swirled, and when it parted, the Clock Diamond offered the night sky with a blanket of stars high above London.

She was gone.

The viewing parlour was the best room in the house. With thick white carpet. Oak chairs arranged in rows. Church organ in the corner. A wooden platform for the coffin with large brass candleholders on either side. Red velvet curtains covered the windows, while the wall opposite contained a vast mural, featuring glorious clouds, ascending angels and cherubs holding a long scroll with the words
Snagsbys’ Discount Funerals
blazoned across it in gold. All very tasteful.

‘Working hard, young lady?’ bellowed Mother Snagsby from upstairs.

‘Wearing my fingers to the bone, dear,’ I called back.

Nearly a week had passed since I had seen Rebecca in the stone – and each day had been agony. I was desperate to get out from under Mother Snagsby’s and Mrs Dickens’ eternal gaze and visit the library. Get my hands on that manuscript. But the Snagsbys had been working me like a slave – I’d read poems at seven sickbeds (four had died while I was fast asleep, but as my
mind was occupied on more important matters, this no longer seemed odd). Rebecca had
spoken
. Told me not to come. To forget what I had seen. Impossible!

While I wasn’t completely sure whether she could see or hear me, she certainly knew I was there. The Clock Diamond had never done that before. Miss Frost made no mention of it having such powers. Beastly questions flared in my mind.

As such, I needed Ambrose Crabtree’s book. Yes, Miss Carnage had warned me that meddling with it might be perilous. But I wasn’t the type to melt in the crucible of danger. Not for a moment!

‘Do not forget to polish the casket!’ screeched Mother Snagsby.

She had ordered me into the parlour at first light with strict instructions that I was not to leave until it was shining like a new penny. There was a viewing in two hours and Mother Snagsby’s men (two perfectly pleasant buffoons) had already put the coffin in place.

I sighed, ambling up the aisle, between rows of wooden chairs. In a few hours they would be filled with grieving relatives. Gathered here for Mr Talbot – who had choked on a carrot, fell backwards out of a window and landed in a heap.

It was an open coffin. I stepped up on to the platform. Looked down on the casket, at poor Mr Talbot. But he wasn’t
there. Someone else was. She had a halo of white hair. Blood-soaked nightdress. In other circumstances I might have gasped and looked terribly shocked. But not today. Not even when the bloated creature’s eyes shot open. And a dark cackle emerged from her lips.

‘What have you done with Mr Talbot, you blubbery abomination?’ I said sternly.

‘He took a walk,’ sang the Duchess of Trinity.

The devious fatso floated out of the coffin, spun around several times, giving off a spray of starlight, then came down in front of me.

‘Hello, child,’ she purred.

‘Go away,’ I said. ‘And put back Mr Talbot! Where is he?’

The ghost smiled wickedly. Dark ribbons of smoke coiled from her nose, weaving into the air. They twisted around each other like rope and arranged themselves into the shape of an arrow. It pointed to the back wall. I turned around. There was Mr Talbot in his best suit, propped up in a chair by the organ.

‘Return him this instant, you hideous ghoul!’

‘Dull child.’ With a flick of her ghostly finger, Mr Talbot stood up, his dead bones creaking and snapping in a ghastly manner. Then the Duchess nodded her head and the corpse began to take staggering, halting steps up the aisle towards us. His arms were limp at his side. His head snapped back and flew
forward with alarming frequency. He stepped up on to the platform, his joints cracking like a whip.

Mr Talbot’s stiff fingers gripped the edge of the coffin. But as he began to lift his brittle body into the casket, two of them snapped off and dropped to the floor. Which was deliciously shocking. While the corpse took his rightful place, his head resting against the satin cushion, I scooped up the digits. Placed Mr Talbot’s hands at his side. And arranged the fingers as best I could.

The ghost still hovered before me.

‘How do you like being a daughter, child? Is it all that you hoped it would be?’

‘Go away.’

‘Alas, I cannot,’ came the dead woman’s reply, ‘for I come on a most urgent matter and must ask you for a
small
favour.’

Now it was my turn to laugh. ‘You’re as batty as you are fiendish,’ I declared. ‘After what you did to Rebecca I wouldn’t help you if you were the last ghost in all of England.’

‘That poor girl was never my target,’ said the Duchess.

‘No, it was Matilda you wanted to kill. Just so you could punish Lady Elizabeth and wreak vengeance. What you did was wickedly cruel!’

‘That is true enough,’ said the ghost. ‘My actions were unforgivable.’

I cannot say why it was such a shock to hear the Duchess admit her guilt. But it was.

‘Unfortunately,
I
cannot help her,’ said the dead woman next. ‘But
you
, on the other hand …’

‘Do you know where Rebecca is? Can you tell me how I might reach her?’

‘I am between worlds,’ declared the Duchess, ‘and know little of such things.’ Then her eyes closed. She licked her lips, her black tongue slipping out like a serpent. ‘But if there is a way to unearth the girl’s
exact
location, I will try and find it.’

Which was wonderfully promising.

The ghost opened her eyes again. ‘However, I require something in return.’

I was frowning now. ‘Do not think you can fool me again,’ I said sternly. ‘If this is another one of your wicked schemes, I will know it.’

‘You be the judge, child,’ sang the ghost. ‘I only have one living relative – my cousin, Victor Grimwig. He is gravely ill, though he will not admit it. Victor’s savings are scant and although he dearly wants a proper burial, it must be one that he can afford.’

Was the Duchess asking me to help arrange a discount funeral for her cousin? The ghost seemed to read the wonder upon my face.

‘Yes, child, I am hoping that you will help arrange for Victor to have one of your delightful pre-measured coffins.’

‘What are you up to, Duchess? You’re a hateful sort of ghost, positively bursting with bad intentions – why do you wish to help your cousin?’

The Duchess of Trinity shook her head mournfully, the glow of her skin dimming. ‘I am trapped in the greylands, child, neither in one place nor the other. There is only one way I can move on – I must do some good in the world.’ She looked at me, her eyes two dark wells. ‘My life was wasted on vengeance and hatred and now I am trying to do a good deed. Surely there is no harm in that?’

I stepped down off the platform. Made no reply.

‘Will you help me bring peace to my dear cousin?’ The ghost moved swiftly, flying to my side. ‘And I will see what I can discover about poor Rebecca.’