Anyone but Ivy Pocket

by Caleb Krisp

  Once on my feet, I could see that my bedroom chamber had been ransacked—drawers opened, clothes scattered. Had they come for the Clock Diamond, just as Mr. Banks had predicted? I was sure they had. Luckily the stone was hidden away in the Duchess’s piano. It would be impossible to find.

  Flying out of my room, I crossed the landing and hurried down the curved staircase. I wasn’t afraid. Not a bit. In fact, I was monstrously calm—having all the natural instincts of a sedated cow.

  “Shhhh!” A woman’s voice. Coming from the drawing room. Then hurried footsteps. They grew louder. Indeed, they seemed to be coming right towards me! I stepped back against the wall, vanishing into the shadows. Two figures dashed across the darkened entrance hall and disappeared into the kitchen. As villains went, they were remarkably short. A cauldron of anger bubbled up in me. Monstrous thieves! I stepped out of the shadows and raced after them, fully prepared for battle.

  The kitchen was gloomy and still. A candle flicked on a bench. Copper pots and pans hung from an iron rack above the table. Mrs. Vans was sound asleep in a rocking chair, a spent pipe dangling from her lips. A fire still burned in the large open hearth. No sign of the intruders.

  I walked around the table. Looked under it. Nobody there. Perhaps they had fled out the back door? I was about to check when a plucked chicken came flying out of the larder. Followed by a side of beef. Then a sack of potatoes. I ducked behind the table just as the two little intruders came scurrying out. They wore dark robes, their faces concealed by hoods. I thought immediately of the strange little man getting into the carriage with Miss Always. The resemblance was striking. Which was odd. One of the devious dwarfs had a large bag of flour in his hand—he tore it open as if it were made of wrapping paper, and emptied the contents onto the floor.

  Filthy beast!

  The villains stopped suddenly. Then turned their heads in perfect unison. They appeared to be staring straight at me! Then the blackguards split up, taking rapid little steps as they rounded the kitchen table from either side. In moments they would be upon me. I jumped up and grabbed a pot from the rack above. I felt something coil around my left wrist. With no time to spare, I swung the pot as forcefully as I could—hitting one hooded cretin in the head. He tumbled to the floor.

  The second intruder made a beastly hissing sound. His face was hidden by the hood, but I was certain he was an ugly little wretch! I reached for another pot, but too late. The four-foot fathead grabbed my arm and flung me across the table as if I were a rag doll. The nerve! I slid across the table, flew off the other side, and rolled over the stone floor. Remarkably, I was unhurt and jumped quickly to my feet. In seconds both my attackers were upon me again. The one to my left struck first, his hideous talons reaching for my throat. With no suitable weapon in sight, I grabbed a handful of flour from the pile at my feet and threw it in his face. The tiny brute hissed. Shook his head. Stumbled back.

  His accomplice lunged for me. I bolted across the kitchen, jumped on a chair, and leaped onto the table. A shadow flew past me. I felt a hand from behind grasping for my ankle. My options were rather limited. They had me surrounded. The only way to go was up. With momentum on my side, I reached for a hook hanging from the iron pot rack above my head. I swung at great speed just as the hooded thief appeared before me. I let go of the rack. Flew through the air. My foot connected wonderfully with the villain’s head, knocking the stuffing out of him. I felt like whooping with delight. Unfortunately, there was no time. For I was still rocketing through the air. With no way of stopping myself, I flew over Mrs. Vans’s head with gusto.

  Then crashed right into the fireplace.

  Which wasn’t at all good.

  My body landed in a tangle. A burning log crumbled beneath me. The flames raged—licking my legs and my arms. Smoke billowed. I heard Mrs. Vans scream. And then . . . darkness.

  The housekeeper pulled me out. She was hollering a great deal. Crying and praying and whatnot. It only took a moment or two, and I was wide awake. I blinked several times. The fire in the hearth had been doused. My arms and legs (and no doubt my face) were covered in soot and ash. But I was unhurt. Not even a slight burn or red mark, Mrs. Vans informed me. She looked thoroughly befuddled. Said the flames had swarmed around me. Said it was a miracle. I very much doubted that. I was certain my nightdress had snuffed out the fire.

  Then I remembered.

  “The intruders,” I said, getting to my feet. “Where did they go, Mrs. Vans?”

  The housekeeper had no idea what I was talking about. Indeed, she seemed to doubt my story. Then we heard it. A crash—probably a vase breaking. It came from the drawing room. Mrs. Vans looked terrified.

  “You must wake Mr. Banks,” she whispered frantically. “And I will call for the constable!”

  “No time, dear,” I said.

  Mrs. Vans tried to stop me as I ran from the kitchen—but she was no match for Ivy Pocket.

  I charged majestically into the drawing room, and I was met with a scene of utter destruction. The whole room had been turned upside down. Moonlight pooled in the middle of the floor like a milky pond, while shadows clung to the corners and walls. I saw movement in the darkness. One of the tiny hoodlums was riffling through a bookcase by the window. The other was busy pulling out drawers at a writing table. Both had their backs to me. I searched among the wreckage for a suitable weapon.

  To my right was a marble statue of a bear dressed like a footman in a frock coat and bow tie. Perfect. I picked it up and lunged at the nearest villain. He seemed to sense me, turning around as I swung the statue at his head. But “turning” is not really the correct word. The tiny blackguard spun on the spot! At great speed. Rather like a spinning top. So fast and so furiously that it created a violent gust of wind. It lifted me off my feet and sent me flying back. Which was shameful. I wasn’t the kind of girl to blow away in a breeze!

  I landed with a thump against the wall—my head and back bearing most of the impact. The statue broke in my hand, gouging a large hole in the wall. I fully expected to have broken a bone or two. Perhaps a crack in the skull. But no. I felt slightly sore, but everything else seemed to be in full working order as I got to my feet.

  My quick recovery seemed to fascinate the intruders. They looked at me, heads tilting in unison. Then I heard a dry laugh from the shadows.

  “Remarkable,” hissed a voice. It belonged to a woman. It was faint. But cold as ice.

  “Who are you?” I shouted, unable to see this third intruder. “Show your face!’

  I reached for the closest weapon—which, unfortunately, was a bowl of fruit. With a pear grasped in each hand, I walked toward the curtain of shadows. The villains stepped forward in unison, blocking my path.

  “I must warn you,” I said firmly. “At Midwinter Hall I once felled a runaway chimney sweep with only half an apple. So just imagine how lethal I could be with two pears!”

  At that moment Mr. Banks thundered into the room, brandishing a pistol and making all sorts of declarations about policemen and putting hands into the air and whatnot. There was sudden movement in the gloomy half-light. I saw a shadow bolting along the wall. The edge of a dark shirt flaring in the moonlight. The woman jumped through the open window, followed by the two hooded henchmen—who seemed to dive into the thick swarm of dusk right behind her.

  5

  “Miss Pocket, explain yourself!”

  Horatio Banks was not at all happy. He was pacing back and forth in the drawing room as the police scurried about. His endless forehead bulged with purple veins. His steely eyes looked me over as if I were a regular halfwit. The nerve!

  “Why would you attempt to take on these thieves by yourself?” he barked. “Have you any idea what might have happened to you?’

  I was magnificently composed. “I am perfectly capable of dealing with a few hooded dwarfs, dear. As you can see, I had the situation under control.”

  Mr. Banks pointed to the hole in the wall. Which was terribly unfair. “It doesn’t loo
k like it, Miss Pocket!” he thundered. “And from what Mrs. Vans has told me, you very nearly burned to death.”

  “And not even a mark on her,” said Mrs. Vans, clutching her rosary beads.

  “Miss Pocket, the deal is off,” said Mr. Banks gravely. “The situation is far too dangerous. As the executor of the Duchess’s estate, I am empowered to make decisions concerning her property. That is the law.”

  I was stunned. I hadn’t expected this. Call off the deal? Could he do that? I could see the five hundred pounds slipping from my grasp. But I hadn’t just fallen off the turnip truck. I knew precisely what was needed. Which is why I began to sob. Rather hysterically.

  “I’ve had an awful night!” I wailed. “Horrible! Treacherous!”

  Mr. Banks regarded me coolly. Before he had a chance to speak again, I launched my offensive. Sparing no detail, I recounted the events of the evening. Being strapped to my bed. Attacked in the kitchen. Flung about the drawing room. Mr. Banks listened to every word. He said nothing for a moment or two. And then . . . “This woman, the one who stayed in the shadows, did she speak at all?”

  “Only once,” I said, rather disappointed that of all the questions he might have asked me, that was the one he chose. “She said, ‘Remarkable.’”

  “What do you think she meant?”

  I shrugged. “Perhaps she noticed my naturally silky hair.”

  “Thieves in the night!” cried Mrs. Vans. “Roaming about looking for treasure!”

  Mr. Banks huffed. “This was no random robbery, Mrs. Vans. They came for Miss Pocket as much as for the necklace.”

  “Stuff and nonsense!” I said with a frown.

  “Do not be foolish, Miss Pocket,” he said. “Why did the intruders seek to immobilize you in your bed, but not Mrs. Vans or myself?”

  I hadn’t an answer for that.

  Mr. Banks continued, “I believe they intended to find the Clock Diamond, then come back and take you.”

  “But why?” I said. “For what purpose?”

  Now it was Mr. Banks who had no answer. He looked about at the wreckage. “All I know is this—you are in grave danger.”

  I shook my head. “Fear not, Mr. Banks. I’m terribly good in a fight. Stupendously brave. But your concern is understandable—as I possess all the delicate beauty of a princess in a tower.”

  Mrs. Vans snorted. “You, a princess.”

  “You’re not the first to notice, dear.” I smiled regally at the bloated dingbat. “My mother is from a noble family. Tragically noble. Enchanted castles, wicked stepsisters, poisoned apples, and whatnot.”

  “Enough of this foolishness, Miss Pocket,” said Mr. Banks gruffly. “The necklace, is it safe?”

  “I think so.”

  His voice softened. “It might be an idea if you checked.”

  “I will.” It was curious he never asked me where the diamond was hidden.

  Mrs. Vans went out into the hall and began berating the night constable. Mr. Banks followed her, trying his best to calm her down. He urged me to go back to bed. I did. But not before visiting the music room and making sure that the Clock Diamond was still there. It was.

  They searched the house. The police and Mr. Banks. Looked everywhere. It was no great shock to find a window broken in Mrs. Vans’s bedroom. Clearly that had been the thieves’ point of entry.

  By lunchtime the next day, a letter had arrived from Lady Amelia Butterfield. I read it with interest, Mr. Banks looking on.

  “Well?” he said at last.

  “It’s as I expected,” I said, folding the note. “Lady Amelia was delighted to hear from me. I’m invited to bring the necklace down to Butterfield Park on this afternoon’s train. She claims not to remember me from her visit to Midwinter Hall—which I put down to a slight case of stupidity—but she says I am very welcome. So you see, Mr. Banks, our business is nearly at an end.”

  The grumpy lawyer didn’t look at all happy. “I think you should wait before making the journey to Butterfield Park—see if the police have any luck locating the thieves. Then we can decide what to do next.”

  “Wait for what?” I demanded.

  “Miss Pocket, I am worried about you.” He looked at me with something like tenderness. “I had a sister, once upon a time. She was a force of nature, rather like you, I suppose. I was very fond of her and . . . well, you remind me of her.” He cleared his throat. “We must keep you safe, Miss Pocket, that is all there is to it.”

  This caught me off guard. Just a little. While people loved me as a general rule, I haven’t much experience of them worrying about me. That’s the sort of thing a parent might do. Or so I am told.

  I smiled brightly. “I have a job to do, Mr. Banks, and I intend to do it. I shall catch the train to Suffolk at four o’clock.”

  “Then I am coming with you,” he said quickly. “You can’t do this on your own. It’s too dangerous.”

  “I won’t be on my own,” I said, feeling rather pleased with myself. “Lady Amelia writes that her niece Rebecca is in London and will be traveling down on the same train. We will make the journey together.”

  Mr. Banks had no answer to this. But he had a stipulation.

  “I will take you to the station and see you safely on board.”

  I sniffed. “As you wish. Silly man.”

  Mrs. Vans had packed me a hamper for the train, but I confess I ate most of it on the carriage ride to the station. Mr. Banks barked at me the whole way there—giving me a list of do’s and don’ts that stretched on for days. I nodded in most of the right places.

  While Mr. Banks was seeing to my ticket, I busied myself at the newsstand, selecting a penny dreadful or two for the journey ahead. Imagine my surprise when I ran into Miss Always—who was due to catch a train to her mother’s village in the north. The pitiful creature explained that she had been delayed in London overnight due to the monstrous demands of her publisher. The brute loathed her new manuscript—said it had all the excitement of watching tomatoes grow—and was demanding a great many changes. But dear Miss Always was far more troubled by the events of last night in Belgravia.

  “When I read of the break-in in the newspaper, and I saw that it was the very house where you were staying . . .” Miss Always was overcome with the sort of emotion only a terrified spinster can summon. “I was filled with horror! Ivy, are you all right? Are you hurt?”

  “Monstrously hurt, dear,” I said bravely. “The whole ordeal was thrillingly dangerous. I came close to death on at least two occasions. Flung about. Burned to a crisp. I won’t go into detail about how greatly I suffered—it’s plain bad manners—but rest assured, it would make even a hardened pirate shudder in agony.”

  “You poor girl!” cried Miss Always, pushing her spectacles up her nose. “I trust the police have caught the villains who harmed you?”

  I shook my head. “Still at large, dear. Probably planning their next attack.”

  Miss Always gasped. “Heavens!”

  Which seemed like the perfect moment for me to mention the startling similarities between my pint-sized attackers and the hooded stranger I had seen talking to Miss Always on the ship. “It was uncanny,” I said as I paid a shilling for two novels.

  “How peculiar,” said Miss Always. She looked terribly grave. “Goodness, Ivy, you cannot suspect my acquaintance from the boat? Walter was reunited with his father and is now in Bristol for a family reunion—so you see, it simply couldn’t be him.”

  Which made perfect sense. Not that I ever suspected him. Well, not really. It was just that, well, how many hooded dwarfs does one usually come across in two days?

  “Of course if you have any doubts, then you must report poor Walter to the authorities,” said Miss Always, watching me carefully. “Unless . . . unless you already have?”

  I assured her I had not. Which seemed to please her. What a kind soul she was!

  “I’m dreadfully worried for you, Ivy,” she said, linking her arm in mine as we began to walk. Her voice dropped
to a whisper. “Traveling with the Clock Diamond and keeping it safe until Matilda Butterfield’s birthday ball is a grave responsibility for a young girl. I wish . . . I wish I could come with you to Suffolk—so you wouldn’t be all alone.” Miss Always was suddenly bug-eyed. “Oh, Ivy, I’ve just had the most wonderful idea! What if I change my ticket and come with you to Butterfield Park? Wouldn’t that be thrilling?”

  “How can you, dear?” I said, rather startled. “Your mother being at death’s door and whatnot.”

  Miss Always looked slightly vexed. But it quickly passed. “Yes, of course. Poor Mummy.”

  I saw Mr. Banks coming towards us from across the platform. I pointed him out to Miss Always—keen to make an introduction. Unfortunately, it was at that exact moment that Miss Always realized she was going to miss her train if she didn’t hurry away. Which she did. At great speed.

  Mr. Banks was terrifically interested in my friend. Asked a dozen questions. Looked about, this way and that. Then he walked me to my carriage (I had a first-class ticket, as you would expect) and waited on the platform until the train had left the station. He looked as if he expected an attack at any moment, poor man. I waved, but he didn’t wave back.

  I was glad to be leaving London and all its calamities behind. I had the Clock Diamond sewn into the pocket of my dress and my carpetbag at my feet. I looked breathtaking. Just like a banker’s daughter. Or at very least a cheese-maker’s niece.

  I met Rebecca Butterfield on the train. Dear Mr. Banks arranged for me to have the seat next to hers (in first class!). Rebecca was thirteen and pretty, in a plain sort of way—though her freckles were deeply unfortunate. She had wavy blond hair worn loose around her shoulders, dull brown eyes, and unremarkable lips. She seemed rather glum—which caused her to stoop, giving her the posture of a washerwoman. A small box wrapped in brown paper and tied with string sat on her lap. She seemed rather fixated by it.