Bring Me the Head of Ivy Pocket

by Caleb Krisp

  “You are wrong, dear,” I said firmly. “I do not expect you to understand—you are a trusting sort with all the good sense of a sea slug. But believe me, this man is a wicked fellow who works for an equally wicked woman by the name of Miss Always.”

  “Perhaps you will allow me to explain, before you fight me to the death?” Mr. Partridge walked over to the desk and picked up a thin volume of papers. “This apartment belonged to Mr. Banks.”

  I looked around for some sort of proof. Mr. Partridge seemed to read my mind.

  “The portrait above the fire is Mr. Banks’s sister, Caroline. She died when Mr. Banks was just a young man. The cufflink box you threw at my head belonged to his father; he wore the gold ones every time he appeared in court. He believed they brought him luck.”

  I sat down on the bed. Rather dazed and confused. “Why am I here, Mr. Partridge?”

  He walked over and placed the papers in my hands. “Mr. Banks was my mentor and my friend,” he said gently. “He spoke of you a great deal in the weeks before his death. I think . . . perhaps you reminded him of the sister he lost.”

  I recalled Mr. Banks saying much the same thing. So it seemed Mr. Partridge was telling the truth. But that only raised more questions. “How did you find me?” I said. “Why did you find me?”

  “How did I find you? I had an excellent description of you from Mr. Banks, and I spent a small fortune hiring urchins to scour the city looking for you. I was aware that you were incarcerated in Lashwood, but after that the trail went cold . . . until a few days ago when you were spotted at Waterloo Station.”

  Which made sense.

  “Why did I find you?” said Mr. Partridge, grinning mischievously. He had a pleasant face. Brown hair, slicked back. Large brown eyes. Narrow nose. Dimpled cheeks. “The papers you have in your hands are the last will and testament of Mr. Horatio Banks.”

  I looked down at the dreary-looking document. “What has that to do with me?”

  “Everything, as it happens,” said Mr. Partridge. “The day Mr. Banks left for Suffolk, bound for Butterfield Park on some secret business, he handed me his new will. In it, he left his entire estate to one Miss Ivy Pocket.”

  Bertha clapped her hands. “It’s a miracle, it is!”

  It was stunning news. An utter shock. I wiped my brow and felt the beads of sweat on my skin. “I . . . I don’t understand. He left me his estate?”

  “Aren’t you happy?” Then Bertha’s smile faded. “Oh, miss, you look awful pale.”

  “I will send for the doctor,” said Mr. Partridge. “I should have done it hours ago.”

  “No need,” I said quickly. “I feel perfectly fine. Fit as a fiddle. Strong as an ox.”

  Being half dead and no longer able to bleed, I felt a visit from the doctor would be dreadfully unwise. Besides, I had more pressing concerns. “What exactly have I inherited?”

  “Mr. Banks’s estate isn’t especially complicated,” said Mr. Partridge. “There is this apartment, of course, which now belongs to you, some bank bonds, a few paintings . . . and the sum of five thousand pounds.”

  Five thousand pounds! I lunged at Mr. Partridge, squeezing him with the sort of violent force normally used to dislodge a peanut. “That is good news, you eccentrically dressed wonder! And dear Mr. Banks. If he weren’t dead, I would kiss his enormous forehead a thousand times!”

  “If he weren’t dead,” said the lawyer with a grin, “he would hardly be giving you his estate.”

  Bertha looked at me with tears in her eyes. “You’re an heiress, you are.”

  “Naturally, there are arrangements to be made.” Mr. Partridge put on his top hat. “As the executor of Mr. Banks’s affairs, I must ensure that you are well cared for. You will need a guardian, and there is school to consider.”

  “Stuff and nonsense,” I said. “School can wait—I have far more pressing concerns. Missions and plots by the dozen.”

  “Missions?” said Mr. Partridge doubtfully.

  “I’d explain, dear, but it’s terribly private. Hidden lunatics. Cursed necklaces. Other worlds. Lost friends.”

  “I see.”

  Then I asked Mr. Partridge if he would be able to track down a missing child. I gave him the particulars, without mentioning the otherworldly Anastasia Radcliff. He said it would be most difficult, but he would see what could be done.

  “Now as to a guardian,” said Mr. Partridge as he prepared to leave, “I have an aunt in town who might be willing to step into the role.”

  “What a hideous thought,” I said tactfully. “No, Mr. Partridge, I have no need for a guardian.”

  “You cannot mean to live here alone?”

  “Of course not.” I smiled like a newly minted heiress. “I shall have all the company I need.”

  “It’s a fine kitchen,” said Mrs. Dickens.

  We sat at a round table by the picture window, which offered a lovely view over Berkeley Square—me, Mrs. Dickens, and Bertha.

  “And it’s all yours?” said Mrs. Dickens in wonder.

  I nodded. It didn’t feel completely real. Mr. Banks had actually made me his heir. The apartment was enormous. Polished wood floors. Fine carpets. Elegant French furniture. Five bedrooms equipped with comfy brass beds. Paintings aplenty.

  “I’m very happy for you, lass,” said Mrs. Dickens warmly. “Seems to me you deserve a stroke of good fortune such as this.” Then she sighed. “I don’t expect you’ll be returning to Thackeray Street again?”

  “Certainly not,” I replied. “Though I hope you can fetch Rebecca’s clock for me.”

  “Thirty years I’ve lived in that house,” said Mrs. Dickens softly, “and after tonight it’ll be someone else’s home.”

  “Where will you go?” asked Bertha (who was homeless herself).

  “Well, I’m still deciding,” said Mrs. Dickens as confidently as she could muster. “I have a friend in Dover who might put me up.”

  “You’ll do no such thing,” I said firmly. “Either of you. This house has five bedrooms, so there is ample space for the three of us—with room enough for Anastasia when I find her.”

  The ancient housekeeper and the glum maid were positively bug-eyed.

  “Live here?” cried Bertha. “With you?”

  “Why not?”

  “You want me to run the kitchen?” said Mrs. Dickens.

  “If you’d like,” I said.

  The silly woman’s eyes began to mist. “You really mean it, lass?”

  “Of course I do. Please don’t blubber, dear, it makes your nose glow like a lantern.”

  “And I’m to be the maid?” asked Bertha, now sobbing madly. “With . . . with my very own room?”

  “Yes, dear. Though let’s not get bogged down with who does what. It seems to me we can all muck in together.”

  I was then hugged rather savagely. There was a great deal of chatter about brighter days and me being the most wonderful girl who ever lived. All very true. But it was Mrs. Dickens who noticed the worry playing upon my face. “You’re thinking of those not with us, aren’t you, lass?”

  I nodded. “The Clock Diamond is quiet as the grave. Without it, how am I to reach Rebecca and bring her home?”

  “I’m not sure I understand any of it,” offered Bertha, “but if anyone can find a way, it’s you, miss.”

  “Thank you, dear,” I said. “But even I’m at a loss.”

  “As for poor Anastasia,” said Mrs. Dickens, shaking her head, “now that she’s been moved from Lashwood, I don’t think there’s any hope of finding her.”

  On that front, I had some cause for hope. So I told them about what I had learned from my adventure in the dress shop. “There is to be a grand ball at Butterfield Park, though I know for a fact that Estelle has other reasons for going to Suffolk.” I turned to Bertha. “Does she even know the Butterfields?”

  “Not sure, miss. They never called at the house that I can recall.”

  “Something is afoot, I can feel it,” I said. It was impos
sible to imagine that Estelle Dumbleby’s connection to the Butterfields did not involve Anastasia—after all, both families had locked perfectly innocent people in Lashwood. Could it be a coincidence? I was practically positive that Estelle’s trip to Butterfield Park had something to do with Anastasia.

  “Half of London is going to that ball,” said Mrs. Dickens, getting up and putting some water on the stove. “It’s the one hundredth anniversary of the park, so they’re making a great show of it. I heard a few maids talking at the market—the ball is in four days, and all the servants from the Butterfields’ London house are going to Suffolk to serve. Three hundred guests are attending, that’s what I heard.”

  The first hint of a smile broke across my face. “Three hundred and one.”

  Later that afternoon, Mrs. Dickens went back to Thackeray Street to collect her things (and Rebecca’s clock), while Bertha insisted that I go to my delightfully elegant bedroom and lie down. Thanks to a small advance from Mr. Partridge, she was off to the market to buy food, then across town to select some new dresses for me to wear.

  I told her I felt perfectly fine, but she didn’t believe me for a moment. So there I was. Lying in my comfy new bed (which was Mr. Banks’s old bed). While my body was weary and sore, my mind spun at great speed, thinking about the Clock Diamond. And Prospa. And in the elegant surrounds of this new life, a brilliant notion found its place. I had struck upon a way to reach Rebecca!

  But that wasn’t why I sat up in bed with a start. Rather, it was the enormous ball of blue gas that dropped from the chimney into the fireplace and rolled swiftly across the floor. When it hit the chest of drawers, the ball bounced awfully high into the air before landing at the foot of my bed. It hit the floorboards silently, and in an instant a rather chunky ghost, glowing violently, unfurled and hovered before me.

  “Hide me, child,” said the Duchess of Trinity with some urgency, her bloody nightdress rippling as if she was in a windstorm.

  I might have insulted her. Or asked a dozen questions. But I could see the look of desperation on her luminous face, and I recalled that not too long ago this wicked ghoul had saved me from Miss Always and her army of locks. So I shrugged and pointed. “The water jug’s over there.”

  “No, she will look for me there,” said the ghost, starlight swirling about her hair like fireflies.

  At that exact moment I couldn’t help but notice flakes of smoldering ash raining down from the ceiling. The ghost had noticed it too. “Say you have not seen me.” Then she lunged at me, vanishing inside my dress. My rather grubby frock began to swell quickly, expanding as if I were a helium balloon about to take flight. Sadly, I didn’t. Nor did my dress split at the seams as you might expect—instead, it grew and stretched as the Duchess took up residence.

  “What are you doing, you blubbery barnacle?” I shouted, jumping from the bed.

  “Don’t give up the ghost,” I heard her whisper. “Please, child.”

  “Give you up to who?”

  The answer was to be found in the falling ash. It did not scatter about the room. Rather, it collected in a single spot just a few feet in front of me. Piling up at great speed. Taking shape. Filling out. When it was done, a woman stood before me. She was largely transparent, her skin a mottled collection of molten flakes. Rather tall. A stiff, dark dress with a high neck. A glorious head of white hair.

  She looked me up and down. “I’m sorry to intrude,” she said grandly, “but I must ask . . . have you seen the Duchess of Trinity?”

  “Who, dear?”

  “The Duchess of Trinity,” she said again. “I believe you are acquainted.”

  “Highly doubtful.”

  The imperious dead woman seemed rather preoccupied by the fact that I was stupendously fat. “Please forgive my directness, but you appear rather bloated.”

  “Oh, yes. I ate a huge breakfast—half a pony and three barrels of vanilla custard.” I gestured to my majestic surroundings. “As you can see, I’m monstrously rich and therefore off my rocker. What business have you with the Duchess?”

  She didn’t answer at first. Then she sighed. “Some ghosts choose the wrong path. They seek to visit vengeance and bloodshed on the living, and when that happens they are no longer allowed the privilege of an earthbound existence.”

  “She is in the gray lands,” I said, well versed in the Duchess’s dilemma.

  “She was.” Her dark eyes shimmered sadly. “Now she must move on, for it is time she came home. If she stays here . . . if she stays, it will be a great tragedy.”

  “Why? What would happen?”

  The ghost began to come apart before my eyes, the embers breaking off piece by piece and floating up toward the ceiling. When there was barely a trace of her left, I said, “Did you know the Duchess?”

  The regal old woman, nearly gone, allowed a sad smile. “She is my sister.”

  Which was unexpected! Once the last ember had floated up and vanished, I ordered the Duchess to vacate my dress immediately. She burst out with a rather loud pop, looking terribly pleased with herself. “You did well, child,” she purred.

  “Don’t ever hide inside my clothes again, you ghoulish blubber guts.” I patted down my nightdress, which had returned to its previous size. “It’s plain bad manners!”

  “As you wish.”

  “Why were you hiding from your own sister, anyway? Though I am stunned that you have one—I just assumed, being a bloodthirsty tyrant, you were an only child.”

  “She is one of my sisters. There are seven in total.” She growled like a lion. “All dead.”

  “Do you not wish to see them again?”

  “Don’t be absurd. Besides, I have one last great mission to attend to.”

  “What sort of mission?”

  “Well . . .” She paused. Licked her lips, her black tongue slipping out like a serpent. Then said, “I am haunting an old friend who is selling the painting I left to her. It was a sentimental gesture that she had little regard for. I visit her every night, making a great racket.” She smiled menacingly. “It warms my dead heart to watch her tremble.”

  “You’ll give her a heart attack.”

  “Undeniably.”

  “Must you try and murder everyone who displeases you?”

  The ghost shrugged. “It passes the time.”

  Before the Duchess departed, I pressed her for any information on Rebecca. She claimed to have none. “I concern myself with this world and no other.”

  “Very well—what of Jago? Miss Always took him. Do you know how he is? Do you know where he is?”

  The ghost closed her eyes, great wafts of blue gas lifting from her enormous body. “The boy lives,” she said at last. “And before you ask, no, I do not know where.”

  Which wasn’t very helpful at all.

  “It would seem,” said the Duchess of Trinity, floating close to my face, “that without the Clock Diamond, your friend Rebecca is beyond your reach.”

  “You’re hideously wrong, dear,” I said. “While traveling to Prospa with the help of the Clock Diamond was my preferred plan, just before you came rolling out of the fireplace, I struck up with an outstanding plan B.”

  Her dark eyes crackled. “Which is?”

  “None of your business, you bombastic fatso. By the way, do you know when the next quarter moon is?”

  “In four days, I believe. Why do you ask?”

  “No reason at all.”

  The ghost growled. “Insufferable child.”

  The first dinner in my new house was a very grand affair. “My new house”—what a thrilling set of words! Bertha laid the table beautifully; Mr. Banks’s fine china plates and silverware sparkled under candlelight. Paintings of the English countryside looked down from every side.

  Mrs. Dickens had cooked up a storm. The roast chicken was burned to a crisp. The potatoes baked until they had all the delicious fluffiness of a crab shell. The beans appeared to have been tortured. The gravy was a horror show of lumps. But for the firs
t time in an age, I felt rather content. My throat still hurt. My bones were stiff. But I had a few winning plans—one for Rebecca and one for Anastasia. There was hope!

  When Mrs. Dickens had finished overseeing the serving of dinner, she ordered Bertha to the kitchen so that they could clean up before eating their supper. The two women were hastening out of the dining room when I ordered them to stop.

  “Why shouldn’t we all eat together?” I said.

  Mrs. Dickens gasped. “Whatever do you mean, lass?”

  “Just what I said.” I picked up my napkin and arranged it on my lap. (I was wearing a lovely pale green dress that Bertha had selected for me in town.) “Mrs. Dickens, it’s true that your only real talents are afternoon naps and hiding whiskey bottles—but you cooked this hideously burned chicken, and it seems to me you have as much right as anyone to sit down and enjoy it.”

  The housekeeper was startled. But when she saw that I was as serious as a funeral, she hurried over and took a seat beside me. “It’s most improper,” she muttered, already shoveling a potato into her mouth. “But bless you, lass.”

  Bertha suddenly curtsied (strange girl!). Then began to back out of the dining room. “I best get to cleaning the pots.”

  “You’ll do no such thing,” I declared.

  “I won’t?”

  “Bertha, you weep like a burst boil at least eight times a day, but you’re a good egg—and if two maids can sit at such a fine table, why shouldn’t three?”

  She blushed. Giggled. And took her seat. The talk soon turned to my fantastical plans—well, one of them anyway. When I announced that not only was I going to attend the anniversary ball at Butterfield Park in four days’ time, but that while there, I was determined to uncover the whereabouts of Anastasia Radcliff, both Bertha and Mrs. Dickens were stunned stupid.

  “You can’t do it, lass!” said Mrs. Dickens. “That awful Lady Elizabeth will have you locked up again.”

  “It’s true, miss,” cried Bertha. “The minute she claps eyes on you, you’re done for.”

  “That’s why I won’t be going,” I told them.

  “I don’t understand,” said Mrs. Dickens, putting down her knife and fork. “If you’re not going to be there, how can you attend the ball?”