Bring Me the Head of Ivy Pocket

by Caleb Krisp

  “My suit!” Then he groaned like a man who’d just been run over by a pie cart. “My back!”

  “You horrible imp!” said the old man, shuffling toward me and shaking his fist. “That’s a week’s worth of pies you’ve destroyed. I’ll have you arrested, I will. Police! Police!”

  “Calm yourself, you hysterical nincompoop.” I fished out the last of my money (two pounds and some change) and handed it to him. “This should replace most of the pies you’ve lost.”

  Which seemed to calm the grumpy fossil slightly.

  The man in white was now climbing rather clumsily to his feet—he looked to be in a splendid amount of pain. So I took off again, running up the hill as fast as my tired legs would allow.

  “I’ll find you, Ivy Pocket!” he hollered. “You can’t hide forever!”

  “Of course I can, you hideous henchmen,” I called over my shoulder. “I have a gift for hiding—possessing all the natural instincts of a lost sock. You tell Miss Always to leave me alone or I’ll knock the stuffing out of her too!”

  I ran for several blocks, then turned into a narrow alleyway. Ran past a set of stables. Then a barbershop. That’s when I stopped—spotting a path running down the side. It was awfully dark, but I followed it and came upon an unkempt yard. A tattered sofa lying on its side. A broken carriage wheel. A maple tree. And that is where I took shelter, sitting with my back against the trunk. I willed my eyes to stay open, intending to keep watch all night. Not to sleep a wink. As luck would have it, I failed miserably.

  A dog woke me at first light, barking in an outrageous fashion. My bones still ached. My neck was impossibly stiff. The Clock Diamond felt icy cold beneath my crumpled dress.

  All in all, it was a miserable start to the day. I didn’t feel even slightly hungry, yet I knew it was important that I eat. The fact that I was ill, truly ill, still confounded me. Thanks to the Clock Diamond, I was half dead. Blood no longer coursed through my veins. I supposedly couldn’t be hurt or injured as an ordinary girl might. So how was it that thanks to one night spent in a damp well, I was now as sick as a dog? Nor could I fathom why the Clock Diamond no longer worked as it had before.

  I got up and headed into the alleyway—looked left and right for any sign of the man in white. Or Miss Always. A young boy was carrying a box full of apples up the road. A woman stood at an open window, drying bedsheets in the cool morning air. She smiled at me. I smiled back, though my heart wasn’t in it.

  At the end of the narrow lane, I passed into a busy street. But where was I to go? Fortunately, being a marvelous sort of girl, an idea or two was soon bubbling in the wondrous soup of my mind. Which is why I shouted, “Well done, Ivy!”

  I waited for a wagon to pass, then crossed the road. While my new ideas were frightfully brilliant, they wouldn’t succeed as long as I remained a penniless, homeless waif. Which is why I quickened my step as I reached the footpath. For I now knew exactly where I was headed. Salvation was at hand—and there wasn’t a moment to lose.

  Returning to Thackeray Street wasn’t something I had ever imagined doing. After all, the Snagsbys lived there—and they were the murderous nutters who had adopted me for the very worst of reasons. Yet here I was, standing across the road from their house.

  And it was all on account of one thousand pounds. That was my payment from the Duchess of Trinity—that vengeful blubber guts—to deliver the Clock Diamond to Matilda Butterfield on her twelfth birthday. Actually, the amount was five hundred pounds. But the Duchess’s lawyer, the grumpy Mr. Banks, had paid me double. I felt a wave of sorrow as I thought of Mr. Banks—who had been as kind as he was stern, and who had died so awfully at the hands of Miss Always.

  Mother Snagsby had taken the one thousand pounds when I first came to live in Thackeray Street—for safekeeping, she said. Now I needed it back. After all, it was mine. I had earned it fair and square.

  I had another motive for visiting the Snagsbys. Anastasia Radcliff. She had lived with them for a time, after Miss Frost helped Anastasia cross into our world. And they had loved her like a daughter, having lost their own beloved Gretel when she was just a little girl. The Snagsbys believed that Anastasia had returned to Prospa. But if they knew that she was here, in London, locked up in a madhouse—well, they would move heaven and earth to get her out.

  As I walked toward the Snagsbys’ house, I noticed a carriage parked outside. It was loaded with trunks, the driver fastening them with straps. The front door was open, and Mother Snagsby stalked out, lifting her parasol like a weapon and aiming at the driver.

  “Mind my valuables, you clumsy oaf,” she commanded sternly. “If anything is broken, I will bill you personally, is that clear?”

  The driver looked rather vexed but nodded. Mother Snagsby turned back toward the house. Fearing she would vanish inside again, I stepped around the carriage and blocked her path. “Hello, Mother Snagsby—going somewhere?”

  The old crow was a splendid sight. Lumpy skin concealed beneath inches of white powder. The wondrous mole on her upper lip. And that hair—dark as night with a streak of white at the temple. “It’s you!” she hissed.

  It wasn’t the warmest of welcomes.

  “I realize we had a small falling-out,” I said, “on account of you being a crazed fossil with a deadly secret. But I was rather hoping—”

  “What were you hoping?” she snapped. “That we would take you back?” Her lip curled into an unsightly sneer. “I’d sooner cut my own throat.”

  “What a glorious idea. But actually, I’m here about the money.”

  Mother Snagsby lifted her imperious head. “Money?”

  “That’s right. The one thousand pounds you’ve so kindly been keeping for me.” I put out my hand in a winning fashion. “I’d like it back now, please.”

  The old woman’s eyes sparkled darkly. “Living with you, young lady, was an experience of unspeakable suffering. And do you know what the price for that suffering is?” She took a deep breath, then let it out slowly. “One thousand pounds.” Which was monstrously unfair!

  “I sincerely hope,” Mother Snagsby went on, “that you are as destitute as you look.”

  I made no reply.

  “In fact, I hope you . . .” Then Mother Snagsby paused. Glanced quickly at the carriage, then back at me. Her craggy face softened. A smile bloomed on her lips. She put a hand around my shoulder, which was most unexpected. “If it’s money you need, perhaps you would be open to a business arrangement?” she purred. “Something that would benefit us both?”

  What a smashing idea! “Spit it out, dear,” I declared.

  “Sell me the necklace,” she whispered, gazing hungrily at the top of my dress (fully aware that the stone was hidden beneath it). “I will return your one thousand pounds and pay another on top of that. Just think of what you could do with two thousand pounds.”

  “Have you lost your mind?” I spat. “There is no amount of money that would convince me to give you the Clock Diamond. You would use it to kill even more innocent souls!” I folded my arms. “Besides, it’s not working as it used to.”

  It was as if a light had been switched off in her eyes. “Then we have nothing more to discuss.”

  “All done, Mrs. Snagsby,” said the driver. “You ready to go?”

  The old bat gave me a final withering look, then strode toward the waiting carriage.

  “Wait,” I said quickly, “I wish to speak to you about Anastasia.”

  Mother Snagsby stopped. Her glare was ice cold. “What about her?”

  I looked at my former mother for a moment or two. Then I shrugged. “It’s not important.”

  Mother Snagsby had loved Anastasia, I knew that. But I suspected that her love, rather like her loathing, would be awfully hard to take. The old goat entered the carriage. As she did, I caught sight of Ezra. He had been sitting there the whole time. He looked older than I remembered. Frailer too. He did not look at me. Not even a glance.

  Mother Snagsby pounded on the roof with
her parasol. “Away, driver!” As the carriage took off, she stuck her head out of the window. “I hope you get what you deserve, young lady!”

  “What a coincidence,” I called after her. “So do I!”

  I was about to set off, in search of a place to sit and think about what to do next, when I heard it. The distinct sound of weeping. Coming from inside the Snagsbys’ house. So I stuck my head in the doorway and found poor Mrs. Dickens on her hands and knees, scrubbing the hall floor. “Mrs. Dickens, whatever’s the matter?” I asked.

  The housekeeper looked up, and there were tears falling down her pudgy cheeks and mucus oozing from her purple nose. She jumped up and greeted me like an old friend. “It’s good to see you, lass,” she wailed. “Oh, but what a day!”

  I glanced into the darkened hall and saw that it was bare—the carpets were gone; so was the chair by the stairs and the portraits of Gretel that Mother Snagsby had painted. “The Snagsbys have sold up?”

  This made the poor creature weep like a spinster at her younger sister’s wedding. “Gone for good,” she cried. “They shut the funeral home after . . . after that business with Mr. Grimwig. The house has been bought by a rotten lot from Scotland.” Mrs. Dickens blew her nose loudly. “They have a housekeeper of their own, so I’m to be out on the street in three days’ time!”

  “Haven’t you got a new position?”

  “Not yet, lass.” The housekeeper wiped her eyes. “No one wants a woman my age, half worn out and slow on her feet.”

  “That’s true enough,” I said tenderly. “What will you do?”

  She shook her head. “I’m not rightly sure. I haven’t two pennies to rub together.” Then Mrs. Dickens gasped. “You look a fright, lass—are you ill?”

  “Horribly so,” I replied. “Moments from death, I should think. Homeless too.”

  Mrs. Dickens looked me over and nodded her head. “You’d better come inside, then.”

  We sat in the empty kitchen on the only two chairs remaining. Mrs. Dickens served me a glorious bowl of broth, and I forced myself to eat it.

  “Where have they gone?” I said between spoonfuls. “The Snagsbys, I mean.”

  “Arundel,” said Mrs. Dickens, getting up to stoke the fire.

  She didn’t need to say anything more. I had once followed the Snagsbys to Arundel, thinking they were up to some underhanded business. But what I discovered was that their beloved daughter Gretel was buried in a churchyard there. They visited her every week and sat by her grave. It made sense that the Snagsbys had chosen to settle there and live out their days.

  As night rose up around us, Mrs. Dickens and I talked of many things. I told her of my adventures. Of Miss Frost. And Anastasia. She was shocked by what she heard, but did not seem to doubt my fantastic tale for a moment. Delightful creature!

  When I had said all there was to say, Mrs. Dickens stood up and announced, “You must stay here with me.”

  Which was a great relief. But not exactly a solution. Which is why I said, “Are you not being tossed out in three days?”

  Mrs. Dickens nodded sadly. “But let’s not fret about that tonight. Besides, a girl your age has no business wandering the streets.”

  After supper we retired to Mrs. Dickens’s bedroom—it being the only sleeping chamber with any furniture left in it. My fever had returned, and the kindly housekeeper settled me in her bed and placed a cold cloth upon my forehead. Then she lit a candle, opened a drawer in the bedside table, and pulled out a clock. “I kept this for you,” she said, placing it beside me.

  It was silver. Dented and scratched. And it had belonged to Rebecca—a relic I had rescued from her bedroom at Butterfield Park. I could still picture that room in glorious detail, filled with hundreds of clocks of every shape and size. I let my hand rest upon the cold metal and felt such yearning for my friend. “Thank you, Mrs. Dickens,” I whispered.

  The housekeeper arranged herself in a tattered chair by the window, a blanket over her legs. She reached for her cup of tea—which was flavored with a drop or ten of whiskey—and sighed. “Sleep tight, lass,” she said. “Though I can’t guess what tomorrow will bring.”

  “I can,” I told her. “We are going to a madhouse.”

  “A what?”

  “Drink your whiskey, dear. We’ll talk in the morning.”

  Then I blew out the candle.

  4

  “I can’t do it, lass.”

  “Well, of course you can, you lily-livered dingbat.”

  Mrs. Dickens stared fretfully at the grim building and wiped her bulbous nose. “But what will I say when I get in there?”

  We had walked all the way to Islington the following morning, arriving around noon. I was feeling slightly better after a good night’s sleep (though I was rather disappointed not to have dreamed of that thatched cottage again, or the garden of weeds and wildflowers). Mrs. Dickens and I were standing across the road from Lashwood. And she was being violently uncooperative.

  “You will say that you are here to visit Anastasia Radcliff,” I said calmly. “Tell them you are a distant relative who has just returned from America.”

  “But what if they don’t believe me?” she cried.

  “Why shouldn’t they believe you? You look like a perfectly upstanding woman. They won’t be able to tell that you have a fondness for hard liquor, horse races, and violent detective novels just by looking at you.” I gave her a gentle shove. “Hurry along, dear.”

  Lashwood was the most feared madhouse in all of London, so I didn’t entirely blame Mrs. Dickens. I would have gone in her place, but as I had only recently escaped from that hideous asylum (with Jago’s expert help), I didn’t think it wise to show my face.

  Mrs. Dickens gulped loudly. “I’ll do my best, lass.”

  “Anastasia knows you, Mrs. Dickens—she will be overjoyed to see a familiar face. Tell her that help is at hand. Tell her we will find a way to get her out.”

  I watched from behind a lamppost as the kindly housekeeper crossed the busy road and passed through Lashwood’s menacing iron gates.

  It had been a busy morning. After breakfast, we had gotten to work baking rhubarb tarts. It was my idea. I chose rhubarb because it was the only fruit Mrs. Dickens had left in the larder. She was frightfully curious when I wrapped three of the delicate and delicious treats into a cloth and shoved them in my apron.

  “What are you up to?” she asked.

  “You’ll know soon enough,” I had said as we hurried out the door.

  The minutes passed painfully slowly as I waited for Mrs. Dickens to come out of Lashwood. When she finally did, I saw from her face that it hadn’t gone well.

  “The matron was awful stern,” said Mrs. Dickens, puffing. “She said they had no one by the name of Anastasia Radcliff at Lashwood. She kept asking my name. Wanting to know who had told me that Miss Radcliff was an inmate there.” The housekeeper took a shallow breath. “Then she told me to stay put and hurried away. I took off as soon as she was out of view.”

  “Anastasia must be there under another name,” I said. “That would make it easier for the Dumblebys to keep her hidden away, I suppose.”

  Which was all rather beastly. Luckily, I had already considered such a possibility. That was why I kept my eyes trained on the main gates of Lashwood. After an hour or so, a group of guards and kitchen hands came out all at once. I knew from my time in that monstrous madhouse that the workers changed shifts shortly after lunch was served.

  From among the miserable crowd, I found my target. She wore a grimy uniform of black and white, her pudgy jowls shaking with every heavy step—and as I had once tried to bribe her with a shoemaker from Bristol, I remembered her well. At my instruction, Mrs. Dickens called her over. “What you want with me, then?” she grumbled, sticking a finger up her nose.

  I stepped out from behind the lamppost. The kitchen hand recognized me instantly.

  “You’re the brat from cell twenty-four who never stopped yapping.” Then she frowned and pul
led the finger from her nose. “Hold up—aren’t you the one who escaped?”

  “Yes, dear, and you’re the halfwitted nose picker who fed me gruel twice a day. Now that we are reacquainted, let us get down to business.”

  She sniffed. “What sort of business?”

  Which is when I pulled the folded cloth from my apron and flashed the rhubarb tarts at her. In an instant, her putrid hand was reaching for the delectable goodies.

  “Not yet, you greedy goose,” I said, pulling them away. “First, I want you to pass on a message to one of your inmates.”

  “Do you now?” She sniffed again. “Which one?”

  “The woman who hums day and night.”

  She shrugged. “Can’t.”

  “Why not?”

  “She’s gone, she is.”

  “Lord have mercy,” muttered Mrs. Dickens.

  “Gone where?” I said next.

  “Dunno. She was moved a few days back—in the dead of night and all. Chained up well and good, she was, then bundled into some fancy carriage.” She laughed gruffly. “Took four guards to load her in.” She fixed her eye on the rhubarb tarts. “That’s all I know.”

  Like a rattlesnake, her hand darted out, snatching the tarts from my hand. Then she stomped away. All that remained was the cloth in my hand. And a very great mystery.

  “How unexpected,” was all I could think to say.

  Mrs. Dickens summed up our predicament perfectly. “What do we do now?”

  I spent the walk back to Thackeray Street thinking. Trying to figure out where Anastasia had been taken. Or how I might discover the location. I looked at the problem from every angle. Turned it inside out. Upside down. Shook it around. Slapped it about the head. But nothing. Which was a huge surprise, as I’m usually an exceptional problem solver—possessing all the natural instincts of a Russian chess master. Or at very least, a Mongolian checkers player.