Bring Me the Head of Ivy Pocket

by Caleb Krisp

  “If I want a cup of tea, I will kick a maid and demand one.” Matilda Butterfield’s arms were crossed, her dark fringe falling over her eyes. “There are sixty guests staying in this house and not one brought me a gift. Not one!”

  “But it’s not your birthday, my sweet,” implored Lady Amelia.

  “Well, it should be,” snapped Amelia. “My birthday ball was ruined, and now that Grandmother has finally agreed to hold another, she makes it about Butterfield Park’s birthday, not mine! And why did Grandmother insist that my ball be held in the dreary hall, while this party is to be thrown in the grand ballroom? It’s not fair!”

  “Lower your voice, darling,” said Lady Amelia meekly. “People are staring.”

  “Well, let them!” the hideous brat bellowed. “Sixty guests and not a single gift!”

  With a look of thunder upon her face, Matilda stomped out of the room, straight past where I was sitting. She was a beastly girl, but I couldn’t forget that without her assistance, I might not have been able to escape Lashwood.

  “Lady Amelia,” barked Lady Elizabeth from across the room, “stop loafing about like you’re waiting for a carriage and get over here—my bacon won’t cut itself!”

  Lady Amelia let out a faint groan. “Of course, Lady Elizabeth.”

  “The fruit is delicious,” a woman exclaimed.

  I looked over and wasn’t completely surprised to see Countess Carbunkle taking a seat beside me. She was eating a strawberry, a trickle of juice bleeding down her largely nonexistent chin. It took all my self-control not to tilt her head back and wipe it off.

  The grand creature was quite a sight. Hair piled up on her head like a crown. Wrinkles aplenty. A large and drooping bottom lip. She leaned close to me. “I recently returned from a long journey abroad and let me tell you, there is no finer hostess in all the world than Lady Elizabeth.”

  It was a remarkable coincidence that Countess Carbunkle knew the Butterfields. But then, I supposed that most aristocrats knew one another. “You were in Paris, were you not?” I said, scratching at my wig (it was painfully itchy). “Then you set sail for South America, if I recall.”

  Countess Carbunkle threw me a sharp look. “And how would you know that, Miss . . . ?”

  “Cabbage,” I said quickly. “Esmeralda Cabbage. As for how I knew, I must have heard it somewhere. What with you being monstrously important and whatnot.”

  The Countess seemed to find my face stupendously interesting. “What a charming girl you are, Miss Cabbage,” she said, her watery eyes twinkling. “I think we are going to be great friends.”

  The glorious blockhead was utterly fooled by my disguise!

  “I have read about you in the newspapers many times,” I said, slapping her on the back as dignified ladies do. “And they are quite wrong—you don’t look anything like a bloated walrus.” I shrugged. “Well, apart from the fish breath and unruly whiskers.”

  Countess Carbunkle’s puffy face turned bright red. She bared her teeth and hissed at me. Which I assume is the European way of acknowledging a glorious compliment. Then a smile slithered across her face, and she patted my hand. “What refined manners you have, Esmeralda.” Then she sighed. “As for the newspapers, you must have been reading that awful gossip column written by the equally awful Miss Anonymous. She took great delight in reporting the incident in Paris.”

  Oh, yes. The incident. During a rather grand dinner for the French President, Countess Carbunkle’s tender-hearted maid (me) had tried to relieve her brain fever by pushing her head into a bowl of fruit punch. But instead of being overcome with gratitude and adopting me on the spot, the Countess had run screaming from the room, abandoned me in Paris without a penny, and sailed on the next boat to South America.

  “I hadn’t the courage to return to England after that,” she said sorrowfully. “What happened in Paris haunts me still.”

  “And why shouldn’t it?” I said, patting her hand. “You are filled with shame about abandoning that wondrous junior lady’s maid who saved your life.”

  “I have a great deal to say about Ivy Pocket,” whispered Countess Carbunkle. Her eyes narrowed, latching on to mine. “In fact, I have dreamed of the day when we might meet again and I could tell her exactly what I think of her.”

  Strangely, the pompous woman didn’t look especially pleased. “Did you not adore and worship this magical maid you call Ivy Pocket?” I said with tremendous subtlety.

  “Adore her?” shrieked Countess Carbunkle. Then she looked across the table, right at Lady Elizabeth. Something passed between the two of them, for her cold expression suddenly dissolved and was replaced with a painful smile. “Of course, I adored her! Never will I have a maid as enchanting as darling Ivy.”

  Now that made sense!

  “Will you excuse me?” The Countess got up and joined Lady Elizabeth by the terrace doors. I might have wandered over to join them, but I saw Bertha loitering in the hall outside. She waved at me rather excitedly. So I sprang up, my chair toppling over, and slipped discreetly out of the breakfast room.

  “She’s here.”

  “Who is?”

  “Miss Estelle—I saw her maid in the kitchen.” Bertha gulped. “She’s really here, miss.”

  “Don’t look so anxious, dear. Estelle is the key to finding Anastasia Radcliff.”

  “But what if . . . what if she knows what we’re up to?”

  “Why would she? I have just come from the breakfast room where Countess Carbunkle was practically eating out of my hands—I was once her favorite maid, yet she did not recognize me for a moment. Now, do you have anything to report from the kitchen?”

  “Not a lot, miss,” said Bertha, looking about nervously. “The house has an awful mouse problem—all the maids are scared silly of the little rodents, but apparently Lady Elizabeth is too stingy to get the problem tended to.”

  “Well, that’s of no interest. Was there no other scuttlebutt about strange comings and goings? Or singing lunatics? Or secret hideouts?”

  “Sorry, miss,” was Bertha’s feeble reply.

  “Lady Elizabeth has invited Estelle to a ball celebrating the one hundredth anniversary of Butterfield Park,” I said, tapping my freckled chin. “Why would Estelle care how long this dusty old house has been standing? There must be another reason she is here.”

  “The servants are scared stiff of Lady Elizabeth,” muttered Bertha. “Her chambermaid looks terrified, she does. The poor girl’s exhausted too, what with being up half the night bringing extra supper to Lady Elizabeth’s bedroom. Eats like a horse, that’s what I heard.”

  “Does she?” During my previous visit to Butterfield Park, the old bat had hardly touched her food. “How interesting.”

  Bertha looked deeply confused. “Is it, miss?”

  “Excuse me, have we met?”

  I turned and came face to face with Estelle Dumbleby. She practically glowed in a white dress, her fair hair fixed elegantly around her heart-shaped face.

  “I don’t think so,” I said. “Perhaps you have been to India?”

  “I have not,” she said. “But I confess, your voice is rather familiar.”

  I smiled sweetly. “What an awful thing to say.”

  Estelle released a glorious laugh. “Very true. I do apologize.”

  We introduced ourselves. I couldn’t help but notice Estelle throwing scornful glances at Bertha, who was cowering behind me like a lamb before the huntsman’s axe.

  “I believe I am acquainted with your maid.” Estelle spoke as if Bertha wasn’t in the room. “If I may ask, wherever did you find her?”

  “The poorhouse,” was my quick response. “The dear girl won’t name names, being monstrously discreet and whatnot, but she worked for a mad cow in London who fired her on the very day her mother died.”

  Estelle glowered. But just for a moment. “I’m sure she had her reasons.”

  “Wickedness would be my guess,” I said. But I instantly regretted it when I saw the ferocious sp
ark in Estelle’s eyes.

  “Please excuse me,” said Estelle coldly, “I was just on my way for a walk in the woodlands.”

  I did not want her to get away before I could slyly press her about Anastasia.

  “What a terrible idea,” I said diplomatically. “These woodlands are teaming with feral pigs. I have it on good authority that they ate the vicar and his wife just last week.”

  Estelle kept stealing glances out of the window. I turned and looked—Lady Elizabeth had walked out onto the terrace and was shooing a maid away. It was a rather cold morning, so that struck me as strange.

  “I will take my chances,” said Estelle. “Besides, I should pay my respects to Lady Elizabeth. She is a great woman, is she not?”

  “Oh, yes. Terrifically great. Stupendously grand. Outrageously bonkers.”

  She giggled musically. “What a funny thing to say, Esmeralda.”

  The rotten girl was falling for my charms. But I knew better than to fall for hers.

  “Have you known the Butterfields long?” I asked casually.

  “Not really,” she said, opening the front door. “We have a mutual acquaintance.”

  Ah-ha! How blindly she had walked into my trap!

  “Who might that be?” I asked artfully.

  Estelle smiled sweetly. “No one you would have heard of all the way over in India.”

  “Are you only here for the anniversary ball?” I said next. “Or have you other business in Suffolk? I only ask because it’s an English custom in India to be offensively curious about things.”

  The question seemed to startle her. But just for a moment.

  “Yes, as it happens.”

  “Oh?”

  “Nothing that would interest you, I’m sure.” The young woman smiled softly. “Just a small family matter.”

  Then she walked out of the front door and hurried to Lady Elizabeth’s side.

  I went hunting that night. My investigation thus far had been a tremendous success. Estelle had practically confessed the whole villainous scheme. Well, not exactly confessed. But as I was an expert at jumping to conclusions—having all the natural instincts of a village gossip—I felt supremely confident that my hunches had been right.

  Estelle had practically run out the door to conference with Lady Elizabeth. What could those two—one young and devious, the other old and feral—have to discuss so urgently? Was it really so far-fetched to think that their mutual love of locking people in Lashwood had forged a bond, and now Lady Elizabeth was complicit in hiding Anastasia away?

  While I wasn’t entirely sure what Lady Elizabeth had to gain, I knew in my gut that dark deeds were at play in this house. And it wasn’t just my dazzling instincts at work. Something Bertha had said about Lady Elizabeth struck me as very interesting.

  The old bat was having food delivered to her bedroom chamber in the dead of night. Now that made no sense. Which is why I slipped out of my bedroom just before the clock struck midnight—my disguise still in place—and tiptoed across to the east wing, taking up position around the corner of a long, dark hallway. Even in the dim light, I had a clear view of Lady Elizabeth’s bedroom door.

  Falling asleep wasn’t part of the plan. But I did. Waking up with a start in the wee hours of the morning as a rather exhausted-looking maid came down the hall carrying a tray covered by a silver lid. My timing was perfect! She put the tray on a table beside Lady Elizabeth’s door, making a great deal of racket—which was rather foolish of her. Knocked three times loudly. Then scurried away.

  A few minutes ticked by. Then I heard the handle squeak as the door swung open. Lady Elizabeth, in a long robe and nightcap, stepped out, coughing up a storm. I jumped to my feet and chanced a look around the corner, just as Lady Elizabeth was hurrying down the corridor carrying the silver tray.

  I took off after her—as hushed and unnoticed as a shadow. I reached the top of the landing and looked down as Lady Elizabeth was crossing the great hall. She passed the drawing room and turned toward the east wing. Taking two steps at a time, I bounded down the stairs, the hall a tapestry of pale moonlight and gloom. Without a candle, it was a rather tricky business. My bare feet skidded across the wooden floor as I flew into the passageway, hot on the wicked bat’s trail.

  Lady Elizabeth must have been headed for the library. Which is why I stopped suddenly. For so had Lady Elizabeth. But instead of opening the library door, she put the tray to one side and unlocked the large carved doors of the ballroom. Then she picked up the tray again and slipped quietly inside. The doors closed. A crisp click broke the silence as the lock snapped into place.

  The situation was urgent. With the ballroom door locked, I had to find another way in. Lady Elizabeth had some clandestine business in that room, and I was certain it had to do with Anastasia. What possible reason would a dried-up fossil have for carrying a tray of food into a ballroom at four o’clock in the morning?

  Which is why I slipped furtively into the kitchen. The cooks were busy over the stove, already boiling up pork and beef for breakfast. So I passed through and darted out the kitchen door (it being the only one unlocked at that early hour).

  The damp ground chilled my toes as I hurried around the side of the house. The ballroom was just a short distance from the kitchen, and I intended to access it through a window (I prayed they were unlocked). I stole frequent backward glances to ensure no one was following me. As a result, I ran smack into a deliveryman.

  He wore a thick wool coat, a checkered cap, and a patch over his right eye. And he carried, hoisted on his shoulder, a large package of fresh cheeses for the ball.

  “What you scurrying about for?” he said with a twinkle in his eye. “Running away, is ya?”

  “Certainly not, you ridiculous pirate.”

  He looked rather hurt. “I lost my eye in the war, I did.”

  “I should hope so, dear.” I put out my hands. “If you must know, I was sent out by Cook to collect the cheese. We have a great ball happening tomorrow, and we are preparing madly, as you might expect.”

  He looked at me rather uncertainly. Then he shrugged, placing the heavy package in my hands. “Just be sure this lot goes in the icebox, you hear?”

  “Consider it done.”

  When the one-eyed fellow had returned to his wagon, I got moving again. Precious time had been wasted! So I bolted to the long bank of windows running along the side of the ballroom. Stopped. Peered in. All was darkness. The sun had yet to rise, dawn throwing little light into the vast chamber. I ran from window to window, trying each one. All locked.

  I was despondent as I reached the final window. Pushed on it, expecting disappointment. I wanted to shout for joy when it slid up. I climbed in, dropping the parcel of cheese on the floor beside me. I was concealed behind a thick velvet curtain that bunched together at either end of the windows. I pushed the drapes to one side and sneaked a peak.

  The enormous gallery, with its vaulted ceiling and eight splendid chandeliers, was a tangle of darkness—webs of inky black, twisted around others in shades of mottled gray. There was no sign of Lady Elizabeth. The ballroom appeared to be an empty tomb.

  I decided to chance a look around. As I stepped out, I heard the lock snap. Then the large doors began to open. I jumped back behind the curtain, leaving just a sliver for me to peek through. Soft light spread across the parquet floor as the door opened. A girl entered the room, locking the door behind her.

  She carried a glowing candle, her silky blond hair loose around her shoulders. The girl was halfway across the ballroom when the wind suddenly picked up, blowing through the open window behind me and fluttering the heavy curtain.

  Estelle Dumbleby stopped. “Hello? Is someone there?”

  I kept utterly still. Waited for the sound of her footsteps hurrying toward me. Certain I was done for. But the girl never came. Perhaps a minute ticked by before I dared to peek around the velvet curtain again. And when I did, the chamber was empty. The door was still locked. No one had come or
gone, for I would have heard them. With great courage, I stepped out and charged around the melancholy ballroom, trying to make sense of it. And after I was done, only one thing remained certain. Estelle Dumbleby had vanished into thin air.

  9

  “Vanished!” I declared. “Into thin air no less!”

  The ballroom had me baffled. Though I had searched the vast chamber, high and low, I could not solve the mystery. Estelle had disappeared. So had Lady Elizabeth. The ballroom was shaped like a chocolate box; along one wall was a bank of windows; along the other, a row of paneled mirrors. There had to be a hidden door somewhere. But I could not find it.

  With the sun creeping up over the woodlands, spilling early morning light into the ballroom, I climbed out the window (the ballroom door was locked), sneaked back through the kitchen, and went up to my bedroom chamber. Where I promptly woke Bertha and told her what I had witnessed.

  “What a strange business,” she said, adjusting my wig in the mirror (my disguise was in need of refreshing after the long night). “People creeping about in the night and vanishing without a trace—gives me the chills, it does.”

  “If I had any doubts that Lady Elizabeth and Estelle are in cahoots, last night settled the matter. The tray of food had to be for Anastasia. What a fiendish pair they are!”

  “What are you going to do, miss?”

  “That’s the easy part, dear,” I said, fixing a dab of glue to my nose and sticking it back on. “I shall return to the ballroom before breakfast and snoop about until I find the secret door.”

  “Shall I come with you?” said the maid hopefully.

  “No, thank you, dear.” I threw on a white dress with a lovely silk collar. “I want you to stay as close to Estelle as possible today—see where she goes, what she does, who she talks to.”

  Bertha nodded. “Yes, miss.”

  With no time to waste, I set off for the ballroom again. But my hopes of having the place to myself were dashed. As the ball was tomorrow, the servants were swarming like locusts, setting up the long banqueting table where the food and drink would be served.