Somebody Stop Ivy Pocket

by Caleb Krisp

  ‘Out of the question,’ came Mother Snagsby’s stiff reply, ‘but as you are keen for company, young lady, once you have finished your chores, you may go to the library and select a few suitably sombre poems – no more making things up. It’s unseemly.’

  Ezra put on his cap and opened the front door. ‘Be sure to walk the main roads, Ivy,’ he instructed, same as always. ‘No shortcuts, you hear?’

  ‘Yes, dear,’ I said with a sigh.

  Then the Snagsbys passed out into the morning sun and were gone.

  The long trek from Paddington to the library always went by in a blur. It was my thinking time. And I had a great deal on my mind. Secrets aplenty. The Snagsbys hadn’t a clue about my adventures in Paris, or the journey to England with Miss Always or the events of Butterfield Park. Mother Snagsby disapproved of the way I dusted, so I could not imagine how she might receive the news that I was dead. Or half dead.

  And then there was the Clock Diamond. That cursed and magical stone that should have killed me when I first wore it all those months ago. For that is its great power. It steals souls, leaving behind the withered husk of the innocent fools who put the necklace on. Just as it did with poor Rebecca.

  The necklace also offered visions of the past, present or future. But ever since I had arrived at the Snagsbys’ front door it had been something of a disappointment. Not a single vision. Nothing, until I woke up in Mr Blackhorn’s bedroom chamber and the stone felt warm against my skin.

  It occurred to me that the diamond may have something to show me. So I had hurried up to my bedroom the moment we got home, and peered into the stone. Was I about to be shown a glimpse of my tragic past? Or my glorious future? Perhaps it would be a tantalising clue about why the Clock Diamond hadn’t killed me as it did everyone else who wore it. But no. All I saw was the present – the afternoon sun setting over London. It was a cruel blow.

  I passed through the imposing doors and entered the cool of the London Library. It was a hive of bookish activity. People reading with tremendous relish. Others carrying bundles of books, speaking in whispers. I scanned the room. I did this everywhere I went. What on earth was I looking for? Certainly not Miss Frost. I didn’t expect her to appear and whisk me away on some thrilling adventure. At the train station in Suffolk she had promised that although I would not see her, she would be around. But I had my doubts.

  Even the dangerously bonkers Miss Always had vanished. Hadn’t set eyes on that mad cow since she jumped off the roof at Butterfield Park. If she really believed I was the Dual – the saviour who would heal the plague killing her people – then why hadn’t she appeared? Or tried to grab me and drag me into Prospa (the mysterious world where she and Miss Frost hailed from)? Perhaps Miss Frost had been right about London being the one place on earth Miss Always would not think to look for me.

  ‘You are in the wrong place, Ivy.’

  I smiled. ‘Am I?’

  Miss Carnage motioned to the sign in front of me – Mysticism and the Occult. ‘The poetry section is upstairs.’ She poked me playfully in the arm. ‘You of all people should know that.’

  I had only known Miss Carnage for a few weeks, but she was everything that one could hope for in a librarian. Poorly dressed. Frightfully thick spectacles. Greying hair pulled back in a no-nonsense bun. Hooked nose. Enormous chin. Teeth that looked big enough to carve an inscription on. She was plump and walked rather like a duck – taking short waddling steps.

  ‘You are right,’ I said. ‘My mind was elsewhere.’

  ‘It worries me that you spend so much time looking at morbid poetry,’ said Miss Carnage with great certainty. ‘It isn’t my place to say, but I do not think it healthy for a young girl to be reading poems to the dying, not healthy at all.’

  I sighed and nodded. ‘It’s not nearly as much fun as you might think.’

  Miss Carnage peered down the narrow corridor of books. ‘And I do not think it was an absent mind that brought you to this section of the library. “Mysticism and the Occult” must hold a certain fascination for you, Ivy, given the nature of your parents’ work.’

  I shrugged. ‘Not really, dear.’

  ‘The books here concern dark matters indeed,’ said Miss Carnage, completely ignoring what I had just said, ‘things you would not have any experience of – such as communing with the spirit realm, cursed objects, ghostly visitations.’

  ‘No experience?’ I huffed. ‘Miss Carnage, I’ve had more ghostly visitations than you’ve had lonely evenings by the fire.’

  ‘Heavens.’ Miss Carnage pushed her spectacles up her bent nose. ‘You have seen ghosts, real ghosts?’

  ‘Dozens,’ I told her. ‘Vengeful ones. Sad ones. Lost ones.’

  ‘How fascinating!’ Miss Carnage pulled me down the aisle, scanning the endless spines as we went. ‘In that case there are a few books here that will interest you greatly. Of course, some books are so revolutionary they are frowned upon.’ She looked up and down the aisle as if she were expecting a train. ‘I believe that the library has a few such books hidden away, though they are long forgotten, concerning ghostly matters, worlds within worlds … that kind of thing.’

  Miss Carnage stared at me expectantly.

  ‘Honestly, dear, I’m not at all –’

  ‘Here!’ she declared, pulling out five tomes with lightning speed. ‘If ghosts are troubling you, then the only answer is to arm yourself with the tools to get rid of them.’ Miss Carnage piled the books into my arms with great enthusiasm. ‘This top book is most interesting – Famous Ghosts of Scotland and Wales by Miss Geraldine Always.’

  ‘She’s beastly,’ I heard myself say.

  ‘You know the author?’

  I nodded. ‘The truth is I thought we were friends, bosom friends, but I was horribly mistaken. Has that ever happened to you, dear?’

  Silence.

  I looked up. Miss Carnage was nowhere to be seen.

  Just at that moment I heard the floorboards creak behind me. I spun around, expecting to see the tender-hearted librarian. But the aisle was deserted. Which was rather odd. Perhaps it was because I had been thinking of Miss Always. Or perhaps it was being alone in that vast, dim corridor. Whatever the reason, I began moving swiftly out of there.

  A shameful thrill of relief surged though me as I passed out of the aisle. My eyes were fixed on the welcome buzz of the crowded reading tables. Which is why I didn’t see the foot shoot out. Tripping me up at the ankles. I tumbled to the floor. The books scattered all around me in a thunderous symphony that shattered the quiet.

  As I climbed to my knees, I spotted a pair of black boots and the hem of a fine lilac skirt.

  ‘Honestly, dear,’ I said, hastily collecting the books from the floor, ‘you really should watch where you are going. If I wasn’t the beloved daughter of a pair of violently upstanding coffin makers, I might slap you about the head with a book on vengeful ghosts.’

  With tremendous dignity I got to my feet and looked my attacker in the face. There wasn’t time to control the gasp that flew from my mouth.

  Matilda Butterfield was smiling at me, but her pretty eyes glistened darkly. ‘Hello, Pocket.’

  Chapter 3

  I placed the books on a long reading table swarming with poorly groomed history professors and stared at Matilda in bewilderment. I’m certain I looked gorgeously gobsmacked. ‘What on earth are you doing here?’

  The girl scowled at me from beneath her dark fringe. ‘Not that it’s any of your business, but Mother and I are in London to escape Butterfield Park – we simply couldn’t stand it a moment longer.’

  I nodded as the sadness bubbled up inside me. ‘You miss Rebecca.’

  ‘Rebecca?’ Matilda frowned. Then sighed. ‘Oh, that. Yes, it’s all terribly sad, but people die every day and there’s no shame in it. What’s really made life unbearable is my birthday ball and we both know whose fault that is, don’t we, Pocket?’

  ‘You mustn’t blame yourself, dear,’ I said.

 
‘Myself?’ spat Matilda, stomping her foot (which attracted a great deal of disapproving looks from the history professors). ‘It’s you, Pocket! I should wring your neck! What sort of idiot falls from a chandelier into a birthday cake? Now the entire county is laughing behind my back.’

  ‘I admit that I may have caused a slight disruption, but that is what has made your party so special. For it now has something money cannot buy – infamy.’

  The girl’s gaze narrowed. ‘I’m listening.’

  ‘Well, it’s really very simple. Your birthday will be talked about for decades to come. I’m almost certain it won’t be the last party to have a heartbreakingly pretty girl falling from a great height into the birthday cake, but it will always be the first, and that makes it terribly unique.’

  Matilda’s eyes began to dance. ‘I see them whispering when I go into the village. Yes, they stare and gossip, because my birthday ball was the most exciting thing that has ever happened in their dreary little lives.’

  I shook my head. ‘I’m almost certain they stare and gossip because you’re hideously unpleasant. But they won’t soon forget your birthday ball and surely that is all that matters?’

  The history professors were now openly pointing at us and muttering to one another. Talking was frowned upon in the reading room. And as the library was my one refuge from funerals and deathbeds, I grabbed Matilda by the arm and made a hasty retreat.

  The midday sun shimmered over the grand building’s stonework, making the ground sparkle like gemstones as we made our way down the main stairs. Matilda was grumbling about having to meet her mother at a nearby hotel for lunch.

  ‘Is Lady Elizabeth with you?’ I asked.

  Matilda stopped at the bottom of the stairs. ‘Grandmother said she did not feel well enough to travel – but I do not believe her.’

  This provided me with an opportunity to ask a question that had been troubling me a great deal. ‘How is she?’

  ‘Broken,’ came the faint reply. Then the sharp edges returned to her voice. ‘Butterfield Park is closed to visitors and Grandmother won’t see anyone apart from her doctor. Mother says she is just sad, but I think she’s selfish. My cousin is gone and she isn’t coming back – must we all wear black and bow our heads forever?’

  ‘You do miss Rebecca … don’t you?’

  Matilda looked over the parklands beyond us. ‘Do you still have it?’

  ‘Have what?’

  ‘The necklace.’

  ‘Oh. I have it somewhere or other.’

  ‘Mother thinks the stone killed Rebecca, but what do you think, Pocket?’

  A peal of laughter flew from me (I hoped it was convincing). ‘Whoever heard of a diamond killing someone?’

  ‘Why don’t you sell it, then?’ said Matilda, looking scornfully at my dreary apron and hobnail boots. ‘If you bought some new clothes and fixed yourself up, someone might actually want you in their family.’

  I shrugged. ‘I already have one of those.’

  ‘You do?’

  ‘Oh yes. Lovely couple. Successful in business. Pretty house. They shower me with so much love and affection I’m practically gasping for air. I even have an older sister. Gretel’s in Paris right now at finishing school and I expect Mother Snagsby will send me there too when I come of age.’

  A sly smile creased her ruby lips. ‘Things turned out rather well for you, didn’t they?’

  ‘Splendidly well, dear. Couldn’t be happier.’

  Then Matilda walked away. Without so much as a goodbye.

  ‘Perhaps we could meet for tea?’ I called after her. ‘Or a walk around Hyde Park? I’m frightfully busy, of course, but I just happen to have the next seven or eight weeks free!’

  Matilda didn’t even turn around. ‘I don’t think so, Pocket.’

  The walk home was rather bleak. On most days, Rebecca was never far from my thoughts – but now, after seeing Matilda, it all came back in hideous detail. Her death had been so beastly. All she ever wanted was to see her mother again. That was why she had put on the Clock Diamond. But Miss Frost made it clear that Rebecca’s soul had been spirited away to Prospa and that even in death, there would be no reunion between mother and daughter. Knowing that I had brought that cursed necklace to Butterfield Park was a knot in my stomach that would never untangle.

  I was feeling so sorry for myself that I nearly walked straight past the old woman crying up a storm in the middle of the footpath. She had white hair beneath a lace cap. A bruise on her temple. Milky eyes. And she was rather dead.

  The frazzled creature shrieked when I asked her what was the matter.

  ‘You can hear me?’ she cried. ‘But I’ve talked to Mrs Denton next door and Miss Wilcox at the grocer, and they looked right through me! But you, you can see me.’ She threw her arms towards the sky. ‘Thank the stars! I thought I was dead!’

  ‘You are. Dead as a fence post.’

  She gasped. Looked rather unconvinced. ‘How can you be sure?’

  I looked down at the ground and pointed to her feet. ‘You’re floating, dear.’

  The ghost looked down and saw that she was indeed hovering just above the cobblestones. ‘Well, I never,’ she muttered. ‘The last thing I remember is stepping up on a chair to reach the pickled herring on the top shelf. Oh, I do love a pickled herring.’

  ‘I’m almost certain you fell off the chair, bumped your head, and promptly died.’

  The ghost gasped again. Spun around. Stopped. Looked rather crestfallen. Pointed to the sky. ‘I always imagined that when it was my time, I’d go up there.’

  ‘I’m no expert, but it seems to take longer for some spirits than for others. Eventually you will see a light of some kind. It will be gloriously warm and inviting. Go to it and I think you will find what you are looking for – until then, why not visit the theatre?’

  She seemed rather thrilled by the idea and hurried off, leaving a puff of starlight in her wake. I went on my way again, the street crowded with pedlars and vendors haggling with customers over the price of apples and bread and flowers. I checked my watch – the Snagsbys were soon to be home from visiting Ezra’s sister – and I hadn’t finished any of my chores. So I decided that a shortcut was in order.

  I stepped off the footpath to start across the street, just as a carriage came charging down the road towards me. I halted. Stepped back. As I waited for it to pass, my gaze travelled to the other side of the road. Which is when I saw her. The woman staring back at me. Her glare was of the ravenous kind. Her fierce eyes fixed on mine. The carriage tore past me in a blur, blowing a violent gust of wind in my face. I blinked. Then desperately searched the footpath opposite.

  But Miss Always had vanished without a trace.

  My bedroom door was locked at night. From the outside. This was done for my protection. Apparently, Paddington was teeming with criminals – robbers, kidnappers, assassins. All very unpleasant and dangerous for a newly adopted daughter. So I was locked in. Mother Snagsby kept the key around her neck. A second copy was kept by Mrs Dickens, in a bunch that dangled from a hoop attached to her belt.

  That evening I had been sent to my room without supper. Punishment for not completing my chores. I wasn’t bothered. My mind was a tempest of worry. Miss Always. I had seen Miss Always across the street. How on earth had she found me? Did she know where I lived? Was she coming after me?

  I heard a key turn in the lock. The door opened and Mrs Dickens came in carrying a tray. On it were four potatoes, a quarter of pumpkin and a slice of chocolate cake. God bless Mrs Dickens! She had worked for the Snagsbys since the beginning of time and was suitably plump. Face like a walrus. Drank like a fish. But beneath her chubby cheeks and purple nose beat a heart of gold.

  ‘I expect you’re hungry, lass,’ she said, putting down the tray. She looked around the room and shook her head. ‘I might ask Mrs Snagsby if we could put up some pretty curtains or a bright cover for your bed. A girl your age needs a little colour.’

  My bedroom w
as at the back of the house on the third floor. Just a small bed, a chair, a chest of drawers and a plain side table with the battered silver clock I had taken from Rebecca’s bedroom atop it. Exactly what you would expect for a treasured new daughter. It was true that there was a very pretty bedroom on the second floor right next to the Snagsbys. It had bright red wallpaper, a marble fireplace, a glorious brass bed and its very own dressing room. But that belonged to Gretel. And no one was allowed inside.

  ‘A touch of colour might be nice,’ I said.

  ‘Of course, Mrs Snagsby might not agree,’ said Mrs Dickens, running her apron over the top of the dresser, ‘though I can’t see how she could object as this room hasn’t had a lick of paint since Miss –’

  The housekeeper stopped suddenly. Cleared her throat.

  ‘Since Miss what, dear?’ I said.

  ‘Well … your parents let out this room a long time ago,’ said Mrs Dickens rather quickly, ‘and the last lodger who stayed here was Miss … Miss Lucas.’

  ‘Did she have red hair?’

  Mrs Dickens turned around. ‘How did you know that, lass?’

  ‘Found her hairbrush in the drawer along with a pair of black gloves.’ I sighed with just the right amount of melancholy. ‘Mrs Dickens, I knew a woman with the most ghastly red hair. She was grim and sour-faced and I disliked her very much. At least, I thought I did.’

  ‘You best eat your supper and get to sleep,’ said the housekeeper. ‘And mind you don’t let your mother know I sneaked this food in, you hear?’

  But I didn’t reply right away. For there was a sudden heat radiating against my chest like splash of midday sun. I hurried Mrs Dickens from the room. Promised her I would eat my supper and get a good night’s rest. I could hear the door being locked as I raced back to the bed and fished the Clock Diamond out from under my nightdress.