Bring Me the Head of Ivy Pocket

by Caleb Krisp

  It was Mrs. Dickens who provided the solution. At dinner that night.

  As she served me the last of the potatoes, demanding that I eat something or I would waste away to nothing, she said something rather stupendous. “I found myself staring at the empty larder just now, thinking I’d have to go to market tomorrow and stock up.” She sat down and sighed sadly. “I don’t have a house to run anymore—that’ll take some getting used to. Old habits die hard, don’t they, lass?”

  At which point I jumped up and kissed the purple-nosed nincompoop. If Mrs. Dickens was a creature of habit, so too were the Dumblebys. Hadn’t they spent the past twelve years visiting Anastasia at Lashwood every week and demanding she tell them what had happened to their Sebastian? And now that Lady Dumbleby was dead, didn’t Estelle go in her place?

  Wherever Anastasia was being kept, I felt utterly certain that Estelle would continue to visit her each and every week, seeking the answer that would always elude her.

  So the next morning, I set off for Highgate. Bound for the Dumblebys’ grand villa. Mrs. Dickens was against me going for three reasons. One, Estelle was rather dangerous. Two, there were more important things to worry about—like the new family moving into the Snagsbys’ house tomorrow, leaving us homeless. And three, I had been coughing all night and looked paler than a sack of flour.

  But I went anyway—after all, the Clock Diamond was still cold and lifeless, so reaching Prospa was not a possibility at present. I took precautions, of course. Was stupendously sneaky—wearing a large straw bonnet that belonged to Mrs. Dickens and hiding in the alcove of a handsome building directly across from the Dumblebys’ grand residence.

  I was prepared for a long and tedious wait. But I needn’t have been.

  Just ten minutes after I took up my position, a carriage pulled up outside the Dumblebys’ villa. Then the front door opened, and Estelle glided out as if on a cloud of old money. She was ravishing in a pale pink dress with matching feathered hat and parasol, her golden locks tumbling down her back. She didn’t look even slightly demented.

  The young woman stepped into the carriage after a quick word with the driver. Which is when I made my move. With the elegance of a gazelle, I dashed silently across the road and leaped onto the back of the carriage. I gripped the luggage rack just as it took off. Holding on wasn’t easy, but luckily I was an old hand at this form of transport.

  Excitement coursed through my aching bones as the carriage turned left at the end of the street. I was on the trail of Anastasia Radcliff! Though where we were headed, I hadn’t a clue.

  My disappointment was of the most violent kind.

  “Yes, Miss Dumbleby, your order is ready,” said the shopgirl, gawking in awe at the pink-feathered goddess. “Shall I carry the box out for you?”

  Estelle smiled shyly. “There is no need,” she said, her voice hardly more than a whisper. “My arms work well enough.”

  This made the shopgirl giggle like a halfwit.

  The carriage had driven to Mayfair. I jumped from the back of the carriage, my arms heavy and sore, and scooted around the side—just as Estelle hopped out and headed into the nearest door. My heart sank. Instead of being led to Anastasia Radcliff, I had hitched a ride to a dress shop. It was an outrage!

  Then a thought occurred to me. Perhaps the dress shop led to a secret passageway that led to a door that led to a set of stairs that led to another door, on the other side of which was a windowless cell. And it was there that Anastasia was being detained. With that in mind, I sneaked into the store while Estelle and the shopgirl were deep in conversation, and hid artfully behind a well-dressed mannequin.

  Sadly, Estelle’s business there seemed to be entirely about clothes. The shop was full of gowns of every shape, style, and size. Plus an array of coats, shawls, wraps, and stoles. It wasn’t busy. The only other customer was a tall woman wearing what looked like an antelope on her head. She gave me disapproving glances from time to time, and I responded by sticking out my tongue and pointing accusingly at her hat. I would have left if not for the fear of discovery. Which, as it turned out, was extremely fortunate.

  For the conversation got terribly interesting.

  “Is the dress for a special occasion, Miss Dumbleby?” gushed the salesgirl.

  Estelle paused for a moment. Turned her head slightly. I held my breath. Had she seen me? Did she know I was there? I froze with all the commitment of an icebox. Keeping utterly still.

  When Estelle answered, her voice had grown louder. Which was a great help! “I am going to Suffolk tomorrow,” she announced. “I have some business there—and there is a ball being thrown by a most important family.”

  Some business there? Could she mean Anastasia?

  “How exciting,” said the woman with the antelope on her head. “I am acquainted with some of the oldest families in Suffolk—where is the ball being held?”

  Estelle paused. Patted her hair. I had to repress the urge to cry out, “Answer the question, you beastly cow!”

  After what felt like an eternity, she gave her reply. And it stopped me cold. “Butterfield Park,” she said merrily. “The ball is at Butterfield Park.”

  5

  She was in no hurry to leave. Estelle lingered at the counter, talking to the shopgirl about hats and gloves and coats as if they were the most important things in the world. I was desperate to get away—to share with Mrs. Dickens what I had just learned. Estelle Dumbleby was bound for Butterfield Park! That could not be a coincidence, could it?

  “I’m sure you’ll be the belle of the ball,” said the shopgirl when Estelle picked up the large box tied with red ribbon. “Those other young ladies will be green with envy.”

  “What a lovely thing to say,” said Estelle with a giggle. “Though I’m sure there will be many pretty girls at Butterfield Park.”

  The shopgirl declared Estelle would be the prettiest of the lot. When the devious Miss Dumbleby finally left the shop, I prepared to make my exit. In fact, I was poised rather like a tiger, waiting for her to step into the carriage so I could steal away. But that is not what happened.

  “Can I help you?” It was the shopgirl. Who was now standing directly behind me.

  I pulled the oversized bonnet around my face. “If you could go away, that would be a tremendous help.”

  “Why are you staring out the window? What are you up to?”

  “Just waiting for my aunt Patricia to come. She is helping me pick out a dress for my coronation.”

  “I do not think you are in the right shop,” said the girl haughtily. “There is a seamstress at the end of the street who caters to the working class.”

  At that, I was forced to turn around. “I’m not here for a dress, dear—I came to pick out a new horse for the big parade. You do sell horses, don’t you?”

  She looked appalled. “Horses? This is the finest dress boutique in London.”

  “My apologies,” I said brightly. “I just assumed this was a stable, what with all the manure you shovel at your customer’s feet.”

  “You horror!” she spat.

  Fortunately, at that exact moment, the lady with the antelope on her head called the girl over to enquire about a pair of gloves. “Leave at once,” the girl hissed at me, before departing, “or I will call for the constable.”

  When she was gone, I turned back to the window, fully expecting to see Estelle’s grand carriage rolling away. Instead, it was still parked outside the dress shop. Estelle stood with the carriage door open, deep in conversation with a woman. The unidentified stranger had her back to me and wore a rather sad-looking tan dress. Her hair was matted in the style of a vagabond. And she had a shabby bag in her hand.

  Estelle’s face had lost much of its sweetness. She seemed to be giving the woman a thorough talking-to—pointing at the stranger in a most unpleasant manner. Perhaps the vagrant was a beggar asking for money? Whatever the case, when Estelle turned to enter the carriage, the woman grabbed her arm. Then dropped to her knees. The
poor creature appeared to be pleading.

  Estelle responded by hitting the woman over the head with her parasol. The woman slumped to the pavement, using her arms to shield her head. And all the while, the well-dressed people of Mayfair strolled by with barely a sideways glance. I couldn’t bear it a moment longer. Even at the risk of exposing myself, I had to stop that monstrous cow from inflicting such a brutal beating!

  I charged across the shop and threw open the door. As I ran out onto the pavement, the bright sun hit my face with such heat it made me woozy. I blinked several times, and when my eyes cleared Estelle’s carriage was roaring away. Her victim lay in a ball upon the ground, hiding her face in shame and sobbing like a lost child. I crouched down beside her and gently touched her hand—there were red welts upon it. “Are you all right, dear?”

  She was all a-tremble. “Miss Estelle was the only one who could help.” Then another violent sob exploded from behind her hands. “I’m ruined. Ruined!”

  “Codswallop! As long as you are breathing, there is hope. Now quit your sniveling and tell me what business have you with Estelle Dumbleby.”

  My kind words seemed to work their magic. She lowered her hands, and I got my first glimpse of her face. Which is why I let out a small gasp.

  “Bertha?”

  We sat down on a bench outside a chocolate shop.

  “Oh, miss, how could she be so cruel?” Bertha heaved another sob and blew her nose with great commitment. “I’m no beggar—I only wanted a reference.”

  From my limited experience with Bertha, it was clear she was prone to dramatic outbursts. But on this occasion, she had good reason. Her story was indeed a sorry one.

  “My ma was awful sick,” she said.

  “Yes, I remember you mentioning that the night I escaped from Lashwood. Has your mother’s health not improved?”

  Bertha shook her head. “Ma died.”

  “I’m very sorry, dear.”

  “I had to take a day off work to tend to her funeral,” said Bertha solemnly. “When I returned, Lampton, the head butler, told me my services were no longer required.”

  “He fired you?”

  “Miss Estelle fired me.”

  I wiped beads of sweat from my fevered brow. “But why?”

  Bertha did not answer right away. She looked sideways at me. Seemed to be struggling with what to say. Finally she said, “She guessed I’d been talking to you—about when my ma worked for the Dumblebys and about Anastasia and that woman with red hair.”

  Bertha was a monstrous blabbermouth, but as a result of telling me about Miss Frost’s visit to the Dumblebys in search of Anastasia, she was now out of a job. Though barely twenty, the poor creature had the sort of wilting features that made her look eternally disappointed—and now fate had given her a life to match.

  “The funeral ate up all the savings I had,” she went on. “I’m behind on my rent, and the landlady says she’ll have her brother round today to turn me out.” She looked at the bag sitting on her lap. “This morning I packed up what I had and left.”

  “And that is why you were begging Estelle for help?”

  “I’m no beggar, Miss,” said Bertha firmly, wiping her eyes. “I was asking for a reference so I could gain another position somewhere else.” Bertha shook her head slowly. “But Miss Estelle said I deserved to be homeless. She said she would make sure I wasn’t given a position at any decent house in London.”

  “The devil!”

  “I think you’re right about that.” Then Bertha looked at me with the eyes of a frightened child. “What am I to do?”

  “Fear not, dear. I will help you.”

  Exactly how I would help wasn’t clear. After all, I was penniless and soon to be homeless myself. I might have given the problem some serious thought, were it not for the man I spotted on the crowded footpath just twenty feet away.

  He stood out from the subdued frock coats and somber day dresses of the pedestrians around him. In fact, he looked rather dashing in his white suit and top hat. Either the pie stains had been expertly removed, or he had more than one white suit. Whatever the case, he had me in his sights, a boyish grin upon his lips.

  “I am in a spot of danger,” I said quickly, jumping to my feet. “Nothing too serious, just a violent hag’s well-dressed henchman. Are you with me, dear?”

  Bertha nodded without a moment’s hesitation. “Course I am.”

  Then she leaped up, and we bolted into the crowd.

  Running for your life can be a tricky business. Especially when you’re ill. My head had begun to churn again. The bright sun hurt my eyes. The footpath was teeming with pedestrians as Bertha and I zipped through the crowd. A crowd that seemed to swell and multiply the deeper we journeyed into it—a great ocean of frock coats and boots, wool skirts and raised parasols.

  I stole a backwards glance and saw the man in white coming up behind us.

  “It’s awful crowded.” Bertha was panting beside me, struggling with her bag. “Shouldn’t we cross the road where there’s less people about?”

  “No, dear,” I called back, pulling the sluggish girl along. “We are safer in a crowd.”

  “Who is he, miss?”

  “No idea!” I shouted. “But he works for a dangerous woman who has wicked plans for me.”

  A spark lit up in Bertha’s dull eyes. “He won’t get you if I have anything to say about it!”

  We ran past a theater—the entertainment must have just ended, for a crowd erupted from the doors, swarming the pavement. People stepped in front of our path, or crisscrossed, or stopped suddenly to chat. It involved a tremendous amount of sidestepping and spinning to keep moving forward.

  I felt the perspiration dripping from my face and neck. The heat pressing in on me like an oven. Glancing back, I looked for the man in white. He was nowhere to be seen. I checked again. No sign of him. Bertha, despite huffing and puffing like an exhausted donkey, was keeping up admirably. In fact, she was slightly ahead of me. For my legs had begun to slow now, stiff and heavy as two blocks of stone.

  “You’re burning up, Miss,” shouted Bertha. “Your face is awful damp!”

  I leaped over an impossibly selfish gentleman tying his shoes, but landed heavily. The straw bonnet blew off my head as a shiver of pain rushed from my feet up to my skull. “Stuff and nonsense,” I wheezed. “I think . . . we have lost him. Let us keep going just a little longer.”

  “Miss, watch out!”

  Something flashed to my left. Then an arm seized mine, gripping me like an iron shackle. I was pulled to a sudden stop. “You’re a hard one to catch, Ivy Pocket,” said the man in white.

  Bertha gave a startled cry. I lashed out—though all the strength seemed to have left my body—pummeling my attacker about the chest and head with my free hand. I heard gasps coming from the crowd. Strangely, as I looked at him, the man in white appeared to be shooting up above me. Too late, I realized that the one moving was me. I was falling to the ground. In an instant, the dazzling shimmer of daylight vanished, as if the world had pulled the curtains shut.

  The darkness swallowed me whole.

  6

  The first thing I saw were the bluebirds. A flock of them—feathers glistening, wings extended—flying across a pale sky scattered with heavenly clouds. The bluebirds weren’t moving, though. In fact, they were utterly still. And stuck on the ceiling. Painted in glorious detail around a perfectly elegant lantern. Exactly whose lantern, I didn’t know.

  As such, I shot up. Which was a mistake, for my head seemed to spin off my neck and fly across the room. At least, that’s what it felt like.

  “Calm yourself, miss.” Bertha got up from the chair, which was positioned at my bedside. “You’re safe, safe and sound—though your fever’s been fierce.”

  I allowed her to ease me back down—only after checking that the Clock Diamond was still around my neck. It was, but ice cold. “Where am I?”

  Bertha giggled. “It’s grand, isn’t it?” Which didn’t an
swer the question at all. “I’ll fetch you some water, miss. You sound awful parched.”

  As Bertha hurried out of the door, I glanced around the room. Still utterly baffled about where I was. Miss Always’s finely dressed goon grabbing me was the last thing I recalled. Thank heavens there was no sign of him. The room was delightfully furnished—a mahogany desk, velvet-covered sofas, and a long mirror. On the table beside me were an oil lamp and a silver box full of cufflinks. A marble fireplace stood to my left. Above it, a portrait of a rather pretty girl playing by the seaside. The curtains were drawn, casting the far side of the room in gloomy shadows. Where on earth was I?

  “You look rather confused, Ivy. Perhaps I can help.”

  The voice came from across the room. It was deep and commanding—and it gave me chills. So I wasn’t completely surprised when he stood up, slipping out of the shadows where he had been sitting the whole time. His white suit blindingly crisp. His top hat in his hand.

  “How are you feeling?” he said next. “Can I fetch you something to eat?”

  I responded by picking up the silver cufflink box and throwing it at his head. The scoundrel ducked just in time, and it smashed against the far wall.

  “You can’t keep me here!” I leaped out of bed and picked up the lantern, holding it like a weapon. “I will fight you to the death if I have to. And let me warn you, dear, I have a gift for vengeance—possessing all the natural instincts of a jilted bride.”

  “It’s all right, miss,” said Bertha, hurrying back into the room with a glass of water. “Mr. Partridge means you no harm.”

  “You know his name?” I gasped. “You two are working together?”

  “No, miss, it’s not like that,” said Bertha.

  The man in white chuckled. “You are just as Mr. Banks described.”

  I frowned. “Mr. Banks?”

  “That’s right. I have been seeking you out on his account.”

  “He has good news,” said Bertha, “the best kind.”