Anyone but Ivy Pocket

by Caleb Krisp

  Miss Always stopped suddenly. “There’s no need for that, is there?” She looked positively alarmed. Then she burst into merry laugher and prodded me playfully on the arm. “I didn’t think a little seasickness would send you scurrying to the doctor, Ivy. Who knew you were so fragile?’

  Me, fragile? I suppressed a sudden urge to push Miss Always over the railing and into the ocean. Instead, I declared that I was feeling perfectly fine and had no intention of visiting the doctor. My friend seemed rather pleased.

  At dinner, Miss Always’s interest in my plans knew no bounds. Not just about my mission to deliver the Clock Diamond to Matilda Butterfield. But about where my grandmother lived in London (I had told Miss Always I would be staying with Grandma Pocket until I left for Butterfield Park). It was all rather difficult to explain, as I didn’t exactly have a granny.

  So naturally I made one up.

  “Grandma has several homes in town,” I said helpfully. “One never knows exactly where she will choose to sleep. Grandma is something of a halfwit, but we love her dearly.”

  Miss Always looked bothered. Just for a moment. She said, “I only ask because I will be staying in London briefly to meet with my publisher. I would love to pay you a visit.”

  “Sounds delightful, dear,” I said, “but quite impossible. Grandma hates company.”

  Miss Always insisted on giving me the address of her publisher. She practically begged me to write to her the moment I was settled with the address where I would be staying. Naturally I promised that I would.

  The Britannia anchored at the Royal Albert Pier the next morning, sailing in through a blanket of heavy fog. Miss Always seemed to dread our parting. She looked smart in her best scarlet dress, but her face looked gaunt and her expression terribly depressed. To my surprise, she said I looked tired, and she urged me to stay in London for a few days to rest.

  We stood together on the deck of the great ship and watched the city drift into view.

  “Perhaps we could take tea in the saloon before we disembark?” I said, certain that Miss Always would leap at the chance. To my surprise, she declined.

  “I am meeting my publisher the moment we berth,” she explained. “He is anxious to hear all about my new manuscript.”

  We parted then and there. Miss Always cried. I pretended to. It was touching. An hour later I had my carpetbag in my hand, the Clock Diamond in my pocket, and London in my sights. Just before I departed, I glanced around for one final look at the Britannia. She was splendid. There was a line of passengers mounting the gangway. I took my place, but it was a painfully slow business. Glancing down, I noticed a black carriage with four horses carving a path through the bustling crowd. It turned sharply, pulling up around the side of the terminal. The windows were covered in dark drapes. The driver wore a hat, pulled low. All very interesting. I waited for a moment to see who would get out. No one did.

  When the line started to move again, I followed the stream of chattering passengers. I would never have given the black carriage a second thought, were it not for the streak of scarlet that caught my eye. A dress. A scarlet dress. Moving swiftly towards the large black carriage. It wasn’t one person, but two. I stopped and stared at them. Utterly captivated. When they reached the carriage, the door swung open. The tiny hooded figure I had seen on the ship was the first to climb in. Followed swiftly by Miss Always.

  4

  London was just as I had left it. Grim. Filthy. Miserable. But my mind was elsewhere. What on earth was Miss Always doing getting into a carriage with that strange little man? A strange little man Miss Always claimed I had hallucinated due to seasickness! It made no sense. None at all. And hadn’t she said that her publisher would be meeting her at the pier? I stopped outside the terminal and put down my carpetbag, a cyclone of thoughts spinning through my mind. That hooded dwarf had forced Miss Always into the carriage at knifepoint. Yes, that must be it! No, wait. Miss Always had climbed into the carriage after the strange little fellow.

  “Think, Ivy,” I said aloud. “You’re a brilliant girl. Just think.”

  For a fleeting moment, the Clock Diamond popped into my mind. Instinctively, my hand flew to the pocket of my new royal-blue dress. I felt for the precious jewel. It was there. Safely sewn in. How stupid of me! Yes, Miss Always had taken an interest in the Countess’s one-of-a-kind diamond. But only because I had told her about it. And in the end, she hadn’t wished to see it at all.

  I thought a little harder. It only took a moment. Perhaps two. Using my natural instincts (which would rival a writer of penny dreadfuls), I quickly solved the puzzle of Miss Always and the hooded stranger. The black carriage did indeed belong to Miss Always’s publisher. And her mysterious traveling companion was the publisher’s long-lost son. I was certain the young man was a pitiful creature—monstrously short, face like a chimpanzee, heartbreakingly stupid—banished from England after a scandal and forced to live in France with a brutish uncle. The poor chap had snuck onto the ship, desperate to return to his family, but terrified of being rejected. The kindhearted Miss Always had befriended the stowaway and learned his tragic tale. Delighted to be of help, she had arranged the ship-side reunion I had just witnessed. A father and son, separated by an ocean, now reunited. It made perfect sense!

  Nothing gets past Ivy Pocket.

  It was late afternoon. Eager to get on with my adventure, I took a rickshaw into the city, intending to spend the night in a suitably fancy hotel. I had ten pounds left from the voyage, and as I was soon to deliver the Clock Diamond to Matilda Butterfield and collect the bulk of my reward, I figured I could certainly afford a little luxury.

  Unfortunately there was some trouble at the hotel. The Grosvenor was suitably grand, but apparently twelve-year-old girls aren’t supposed to stay in deluxe suites all on their own. Ridiculous! I told the manager (who had teeth like a walrus), that I was in London to meet my neglectful parents—self-absorbed mathematicians helping the British government decode a Russian cable concealed in a circus elephant’s left hoof. All very top secret. Thousands of lives at stake and whatnot. The manager didn’t believe a word and I was just about to tell him what I thought of him when—

  “Miss Pocket?”

  I turned around to find a tall man standing right behind me. Gray hair. Stern eyes. Long face. Dark suit. Top hat. He regarded me coolly. “Miss Pocket?” he said again.

  I nodded. “Who are you?”

  “That can wait,” he said firmly. “Come, let us take a walk.”

  Now I am not one to go strolling with strange men. But the remarkable thing was, I felt I didn’t have a choice. Top Hat walked out of the hotel without another word, and like a lemming I followed after him. Extraordinary!

  We walked to St. James’s Park and took a seat under a maple tree. He told me his name was Horatio Banks, the Duchess of Trinity’s lawyer. How he had tracked me down was a mystery that he was unwilling to shed any light upon. But on other matters, he had much to say.

  “Tell me about your voyage,” he said, looking at me with his fierce green eyes. “Any strange occurrences? Anything unusual?”

  “Nothing. I was on my guard,” I said.

  “Did anyone befriend you?” he asked.

  “Hundreds of people, dear. I’m the sort of maid who attracts a crowd.”

  Horatio Banks cleared his throat. “Did anyone show an interest in the Clock Diamond? Did anyone know you were traveling with it?”

  “Mr. Banks, do I look like someone who would go blabbing to strangers about the Clock Diamond?” I could have told him about Miss Always, but what was the use? She was a penniless writer. An innocent spinster. Terribly fascinated by me. But delightfully clueless.

  He got up from the bench and began to pace back and forth in front of me. He pressed his finger to his lips and frowned a great deal. Then he stopped and turned to face me.

  “You’ve heard about the Duchess of Trinity’s murder?”

  “Oh, yes. Terribly sad. Monstrously tragic. I can’t im
agine who would do such a thing.”

  “I can,” said Mr. Banks grimly. “Miss Pocket, did you see anything suspicious, anything at all, when you were in the Duchess’s apartment in Paris?”

  “Nothing.” I didn’t see the point in telling Mr. Banks about the mysterious woman at the keyhole. The vision proved nothing. And besides, I suspected he would gladly try and separate me from the diamond. And without the diamond, there would be no five hundred pounds.

  “What did the Duchess tell you about the stone?” he asked.

  “Only that it’s rare and valuable, and it was her dying wish that I present it to Miss Matilda at her birthday ball.”

  “I don’t like it,” muttered Mr. Banks. “The Duchess refused to tell me how she came to possess this mysterious diamond—I just know that it cost a sizable chunk of her fortune. When are you leaving for Suffolk?”

  “Tomorrow morning,” I said, tightening the bow on my braid (it seemed the right moment).

  “Very good,” he said. “There is a deeper mystery at play, Miss Pocket, and I intend to find out what it is. I am still baffled as to why the Duchess would wish to give such a priceless jewel to Matilda Butterfield—a girl she had never met before.”

  “There is no great mystery there, dear,” I said matter-of-factly. “The Duchess had a falling-out with Matilda’s grandmother decades ago. The necklace is a peace offering. Old people are awfully keen on such things.”

  “Miss Pocket, I believe there is a direct connection between the Duchess’s murder and the Clock Diamond. I also believe you were probably followed from Paris.”

  Poor man. He was shockingly melodramatic. I suspected he had a fondness for the theater. “Mr. Banks, wake up. If someone was stalking me on the boat, they would certainly have struck by now.”

  Horatio Banks looked stumped, which I found rather thrilling.

  “There’s a bigger picture here,” he said at last. “But I cannot see it as yet.”

  “Well, I can,” I told him. “I will leave in the morning, stay a few days at Butterfield Park, and give the necklace to Matilda at her party. Then you will pay me my money, and this whole thing will be at an end. Agreed?”

  He did not.

  “The Duchess has a town house in Belgravia. I’ve arranged for the housekeeper to open a few of the rooms for your use.” He handed me a card. “Here is the address. Collect your things and be at the house by three o’clock. I will meet you there.”

  I protested. Stomped my feet. Stuck out my tongue. Nothing worked. Which was infuriating!

  “If you want your payment, Miss Pocket,” said Mr. Banks, “you will do as I say. I have an important meeting across town; otherwise, I would escort you myself. Talk to no one. Do not tell a soul where you will be staying. Are we clear?”

  “Perfectly,” I said in my most sullen voice (which is astoundingly sullen).

  Then the beastly man spun on his heel and stalked away without so much as a good-bye. He stopped suddenly and turned back. “I worked for the Duchess of Trinity for forty years, and in all that time, I never knew her to trust a single person,” he said. His eyes narrowed and fixed on me. “Why did she pick you to deliver the Clock Diamond? Why you, Miss Pocket?”

  I smiled sweetly. “Oh, I just assumed you knew, dear—I’m one of a kind.”

  Mr. Banks may have smiled then. Just for an instant. Then he tipped his hat and walked away.

  My journey to Belgravia was unremarkable. Except for one thing. I bumped into Miss Always. Quite by accident, of course. She was taking a walk in the park just as I was leaving. The poor creature was thrilled to see me. Hugged me several times. I was curious why she was still in London. She explained that her publisher had asked her to stay on and discuss her new manuscript. Apparently it was shockingly dull and needed more “color” and “excitement.” Miss Always seemed bitterly disappointed. She talked a great deal about the changes she had in mind. But I stopped her. For I had questions.

  “Miss Always,” I said gravely, “I saw you leaving the ship. You got into a carriage with that little hooded man. The one you said I had imagined. Care to explain?”

  Poor Miss Always looked stunned. Her mouth dropped open. Her eyelids blinked rapidly. She adjusted her glasses. “Well, Ivy, that is a very good question.” She looked at me keenly. “Nothing escapes your notice, does it? Tell me—what do you think I was doing with that little man?”

  What a clever woman! She knew that I was full of startling insights. I told her my theory. About her publisher and the hooded dwarf being long-lost father and son. About the poor little man being exiled to France following a scandal. About her role in reuniting them.

  My friend gasped. “Ivy Pocket,” she cried, “you are a wonder! Everything you have said is true. How do you do it?”

  I spent the next several minutes explaining my brilliance to the baffled writer.

  “Where are you staying?” asked Miss Always casually. “On the ship, you were not sure which one of your grandmother’s many houses you would be lodging at. I am sure the matter is now settled.”

  “Oh, yes, thoroughly settled,” I said, pushing a lock of hair behind my ear. “Grandma has a fine house in Belgravia. I am staying there.”

  “How grand.” Miss Always leaned closer. “Where exactly? I only ask because I am leaving London after my meeting and I would like to write to you.”

  Of course I remembered Mr. Banks’s warning—“Do not tell a soul where you will be staying.” But that hardly applied to dear Miss Always. Besides, the Duchess’s London home was sure to be terrifically impressive. Just the place for Grandma Pocket to live. I gave Miss Always the address. She wrote it down rather furiously in her notebook. Closed the notebook. Opened it again. Read the address out to me so as to confirm it. Questioned me again about my plans. Was I sure I would stay in Belgravia tonight?

  Poor Miss Always. I was touched that she found me so fascinating. But I was anxious to get going. We parted with a hug. Miss Always promised to write to me that very night, and I promised to read her letters when I could find the time.

  I reached the Duchess’s town house in Belgravia just before three o’clock and was ushered inside by Mrs. Vans, the housekeeper, a toothless, red-faced butterball of no importance, who quickly vanished into the kitchen to smoke her pipe. Horatio Banks was waiting for me in the drawing room, still in his dark suit and top hat. He quizzed me about my activities and seemed rather fixated on my meeting with Miss Always.

  “I would like to meet this friend of yours,” he said sternly. Then he forbade me from leaving the house. Said it was much too dangerous. So dangerous, in fact, that he had decided to chaperone me until I was safely on the train to Suffolk.

  Even worse, the crusty old lawyer insisted I write a note to Lady Amelia Butterfield (Matilda’s mother), informing her that I had a birthday gift for her daughter from the Duchess of Trinity. He said it was the proper thing to do. As if I needed a lesson in manners! With the note written, Mr. Banks vanished into the Duchess’s study to attend to some legal matters, issuing me strict instructions to stay in the drawing room and read a book. Naturally, I promised to do just that.

  Alone at last, I set about exploring the Duchess’s house.

  It was old. Dusty. Full of outdated furniture. Faded carpets. Vulgar antiques. Even the paintings on the walls were dull and lifeless. The Duchess had appalling taste.

  I wandered through a series of tragic rooms on the upper floors. The furniture was covered by sheets, and the windows were shuttered up. There was only one chamber of interest among the dozen I explored. The music room. It was as stuffy and dark as the rest, but a sliver of light from the late afternoon sun washed in between the shutters, illuminating the grand piano like a spotlight. I sat at it. Opened the lid. My mind immediately flew back to the Duchess’s hotel suite in Paris. Something stirred in me. A kind of fluttering in my stomach. Which is probably why I played “Row, Row, Row Your Boat.” Or perhaps I had a hunch. Either way, I wasn’t completely shocked w
hen I played the final note and a cranking sound sprang to life deep within the piano. A panel drew back. A darkened cavity. I reached in. Felt around.

  Nothing there.

  I admit, I was rather disappointed. I suppose I was secretly hoping that the Duchess might have other hidden treasures. I tore at the thread of my pocket, pulled out the Clock Diamond, and placed it inside the hidden chamber. It would be much safer here than in my pocket. There was another reason. I’d become rather preoccupied with the stone. I was thinking about it a great deal. Remembering how it felt to wear it. Picturing what I saw when I looked into it. The girl who was me. And the glorious, blinding light. And the darkness.

  “Stuff and nonsense,” I said aloud. I closed the piano lid. The panel slid back, vanishing into the woodwork. Then I went off in search of food.

  The evening was devastatingly dull. Horatio Banks was buried in his papers. Mrs. Vans stayed holed up in the kitchen smoking her pipe. I read a little. Wandered about looking at the Duchess’s odd collection of art—she had a fondness for marble statues of animals dressed in evening wear.

  It was almost a relief when Mr. Banks ordered me to bed.

  The mattress was gloriously soft. The pillow, a delight. Sleep came quickly.

  I’m not sure what woke me. The snap of a floorboard? The low murmur of a window being pushed up? Something, anyway. My eyes shot open. My nerves afire. The bedroom was a patchwork of shadows—a splash of moonlight slipped in through the parted curtains. Then something else. On either side of my bed. Two small figures scurrying away. I leaped up. At least, I tried to. But I couldn’t move. Not an inch. I was strapped down—the bedsheets pulled tightly across my body with the sort of enthusiasm usually reserved for mummified pharaohs. I struggled to free myself. Wiggled and kicked. But it did little good. I was utterly trapped!

  A pair of shadows flew across the room and out the door.

  A current, urgent and hot, surged through my body. The Clock Diamond! I gritted my teeth and pushed hard against the impossibly tight bedsheets. I pushed and kicked with all my strength. Did a large amount of grunting. Wiggled my shoulders. At last the restraints began to give a little. Showing heartbreaking strength and perseverance, I managed to loosen the sheets enough to wriggle my way up and out. Not unlike a caterpillar.