Somebody Stop Ivy Pocket (7 page)

‘Your new dress will be black – black, plain and sombre,’ declared Mother Snagsby. ‘We have several important appointments in the coming weeks and the blue dress simply will not do.’

I had a sudden urge to push Mother Snagsby from the carriage. Or at the very least, grab her lumpy nose and twist it viciously. Instead, I said, ‘Very well.’

My mind flew to Estelle Dumbleby and her mysterious and sorrowful request. Sneaking about and going through the
Snagsbys’ papers and records seemed like a great deal of effort. Estelle’s story was perfectly tragic – dead mother, missing brother – but a girl only has so many hours in the day. And I had my hands full with the horrid business of Rebecca.

Besides, I was frightfully crafty in the art of digging.

‘Lady Dumbleby is dead,’ I said casually. ‘The whole city is talking about it.’

‘Who?’ said Mother Snagsby.

‘Lady Dumbleby,’ I said again. ‘She was from a tremendously important family. I seem to recall reading that there was an older brother. I believe his name was Sebastian. Apparently, he vanished in most mysterious circumstance many years ago.’

‘I don’t listen to gossip,’ came the sharp rebuke, ‘and neither should you.’

Things were going wonderfully!

‘You know, dear, if you have any secrets of the deep and unpleasant variety, you can share them with me, your loving daughter. For example, if you
happened
to have met a young man once or twice, who just
happened
to have vanished into thin air – and who hasn’t? – well, now would be the perfect time to spill your guts.’

‘Who have you been speaking with?’ Her voice hissed and the lines around her eyes scrunched into a tight map of valleys and peaks. ‘Listen to me very carefully, young lady – I do not
know what became of Sebastian Dumbleby nor do I care. I will not speak of this matter again, is that perfectly understood?’

‘Don’t pop a cork, dear, I was merely trying to pass the time.’

Mother Snagsby took a deep breath. Parted the curtain again to look briefly at the streets rushing by. As she released the air from her lungs, the anger seemed to lift from her stern and rugged face.

‘When we return from the dressmaker,’ she said evenly, ‘you can accompany Mrs Dickens to the market. You eat such unreasonable quantities of potatoes and pumpkins, the poor woman cannot carry them all home by herself.’

Which was the ideal moment to talk of something far less controversial. ‘Mrs Dickens mentioned that you carry around a recipe book – which is wonderfully bonkers – perhaps you might make something for our dessert tonight?’

‘Mrs Dickens should hold her tongue.’

Oh dear. Had I stumbled upon another forbidden subject?

‘I adore family recipes,’ I said brightly. ‘The Pockets had a great many, passed down from one generation to the next. Most were lost following the tragic alligator pie incident of 1842 – Uncle Mortimer did not realise that the beast had to be dead before wrapping it in pastry. We lost seven Pockets that day.’

‘Do you
ever
talk sense?’ snapped Mother Snagsby.

‘Only in extreme emergencies, dear. Did it belong to your mother – the recipe book, I mean? Might I have a look at it?’

‘I sent a note to Mrs Roach yesterday afternoon,’ said Mother Snagsby, choosing to ignore my question, ‘and her reply came by the morning post. She and her daughters have accepted our invitation and they will come next Tuesday at three.’

I may have whooped with delight. But not for long. I could see the hint of something sad and troubled at play on Mother Snagsby’s unsightly face. There was a story behind her book of recipes, I was sure of that. One that might explain a great deal about her sour nature.

And it gave me a rather glorious idea.

Our visit to the dressmaker did not get off to the greatest of starts. The dressmaker, Miss Upton, had a shocking pallor, dull eyes and rasping breath. Naturally, I assumed she was dead. Urged her to float away and head towards the light.

‘What on earth are you talking about?’ snapped Mother Snagsby.

She knew nothing of my ability to see ghosts. ‘I do not want to alarm you, dear,’ I said, pointing at Miss Upton, ‘for you cannot see the hideous apparition before me. Skin like a corpse.
The stench of death about her. I would say more, but I’m much too refined – having all the natural instincts of a young Snow White.’

The dressmaker took offence. Said I was unspeakably rude.

‘She’s an orphan,’ explained Mother Snagsby, as I was told to step up on to a stool and keep utterly still, ‘entirely unwanted and without blood relatives. Mr Snagsby and I took pity on the child as she had nowhere else to go.’

Miss Upton threw a sheet of black fabric over me. Fortunately there was a hole cut in the top for my head, so I was able to look through the shop window on to the busy street.

‘You are a good woman,’ said the dressmaker, as she began sticking pins all around me, ‘to let a stray child into your home and treat her as your own.’

‘Indeed,’ said Mother Snagsby gravely, ‘we must all do our part, as the girl would be in the poorhouse if not for us.’

‘You’re wrong there, dear,’ I said. ‘I would be very welcome in the village where my mother is from. They think the world of us Pockets. Every winter one of the local women carves a statue of the entire family from frozen pig fat. It’s erected in the village square, right next to the one of Napoleon.’

Miss Upton and Mother Snagsby were gawking at me.

‘Foolish girl!’ fumed Mother Snagsby.

‘Excellent point, dear.’ Then I looked at my watch. Shook
my head. ‘Come, Miss Upton, do hurry along, my legs are starting to –’

But I never finished the sentence. For I had glanced out of the window. And as I did, a slim woman dressed in a grey coat passed by. Brown hair. Spectacles. Head high. A brisk, purposeful stride. She appeared to be in a great hurry.

‘Where are you going?’ bellowed Mother Snagsby, when I tore off the black fabric and leapt from the stool. ‘Come back here this instant, young lady!’

I charged across the shop, threw open the door and bounded out on to the footpath.

‘She’s lost her mind!’ declared Miss Upton.

Their frightful squawks quickly faded. I was already storming down the street, weaving between the passersby. I had Miss Always in my sights and this time I would not let her get away.

‘Excuse me, ladies,’ I said, stepping between two women prattling on about hats. Miss Always had turned left at the end of the street and was no longer in view.

‘What’s the hurry?’ said one of the women.

‘Chasing a villain, dear,’ I called out, not looking back. ‘All very dangerous.’

I broke into a sprint, tearing along the busy footpath. At the corner I stopped. Looked to my left. Miss Always had made great headway – she was already a good thirty feet ahead, a grim figure in her long coat. The last time I chased after someone, it had turned out to be a perfectly innocent dwarf, but this time there was no doubt. It was most definitely Miss Always. I would know that face anywhere.

A large posse of Bible-carrying vicars, talking eagerly, fanned out before me. Zigzagging with breathtaking skill, I was soon upon my target again. Miss Always slowed. Turned her head slightly.

Instinctively, I threw myself against the wall. Kept utterly
still. Which was no trouble for me – having all the natural instincts of a lamp post. I held my breath. Prayed that Miss Always would not turn fully and see me. She didn’t and quickly took off again.

About halfway along the avenue, Miss Always took a sharp right into a narrow lane. I got there just as she crossed the tiny street and disappeared inside a dull red building. Rather grimy. Windows darkened by soot and neglect. I had two options – follow after the dastardly hag or wait outside until she emerged again.

Having a mind that would be the envy of a Scotland Yard detective, I swiftly determined that the building probably had a back entrance. And that Miss Always may use it to make an escape. In a display of eye-popping courage, I hurried after her, pushed open the door and stepped inside the building.

But I did not get far. For I collided with someone rushing out. We bumped shoulders and both gave a startled yelp. The hall was especially dim and I could barely see in front of my face.

‘Heavens,’ said the woman.

Which is when I pounced, seizing the villain by the arm. She cried out in distress. Tried to pull away. But my grip was vice-like.

‘The game is up, Miss Always!’ I hollered, dragging her
through the front door and out on to the street. ‘What have your hideous hooded henchmen done with Rebecca? Where is she?’

When the sun hit our faces I was able to look my captive in the eye. And it was rather a shock. For standing before me in a dull brown dress, looking thoroughly shaken, was Miss Carnage. She was touching her substantial nose a great deal and seemed awfully startled. I let go of her instantly.

‘Ivy, what on earth are you doing?’ she said, her voice quivering.

‘I could ask you the same question,’ was my reply. I looked past her, through the open door. ‘Did you pass a woman wearing a grey coat?’

‘I saw no one,’ said Miss Carnage. ‘Ivy, why did you attack me? What is going on?’

‘But you
must
have seen her,’ I said firmly. ‘She came into the building not a minute ago.’

‘Well … perhaps she went out through a back door.’

I hurried into the building again, past the staircase, to the very rear. Sure enough, there was a back door. And it was wide open. When I came back outside, Miss Carnage was still in a most agitated state.

‘Well, Ivy,’ she said, brushing down her dress, ‘what have you to say for yourself? I’m stunned and shocked by your behaviour.’

I looked back at the building. Above the front door was a faded sign, which read:
Buzzby’s Stage Emporium
–
For All Your Theatrical Needs
. Something did not feel right.

‘Miss Carnage, what business have you in this place? They provide costumes and make-up for the theatre, do they not?’

‘I would not know – my dentist has an office on the top floor.’ She touched the side of her right cheek. ‘I have been in tremendous pain since last night.’

I could see no signage on the building indicating a dentist’s surgery. But before I could ask, Miss Carnage said, ‘Doctor Moonstone has only just moved here from Waterloo and I was relieved that he would see me without an appointment.’ She flinched. ‘He said my molars are in a shocking state.’

Which made perfect sense. Except for …

‘Your voice,’ I said. ‘When we were in the hall and I could not see your face – I was so certain it was Miss Always who spoke.’

‘The writer?’ The anxiety faded from her face and she burst into a fit of laughter. ‘A great many people sound alike, Ivy.’ Then she put her hands gently on my shoulders. ‘Do I
look
like Miss Always?’

‘Not a bit, dear. Miss Always is plain but unremarkable. You on the other hand have that magnificent nose, a chin of staggering proportions, a plump belly and the sort of teeth that would make a donkey blush.’

Miss Carnage’s hands dropped from my shoulders. ‘Yes … well …’