by Caleb Krisp
I nodded. ‘The situation is most unfair, as my friend has already died once.’
The librarian’s mouth dropped like a trapdoor. ‘That sounds terribly … unusual … and very dangerous. Would you like me to come with you to report the matter to the constabulary?’
‘My friend is not in England, dear,’ I said carefully. ‘In fact, she is somewhere far, far away.’
Miss Carnage clutched her throat. ‘You don’t mean … ?’
‘Yes, dear, I think I do.’ I stepped closer to Miss Carnage, signalling the importance of my next declaration. ‘Last time I was here you mentioned certain books that the library kept hidden away. Books that dealt with ghostly matters and worlds within worlds. Isn’t that what you said?’
Miss Carnage paled wonderfully. Nodded her head.
‘You see, I know where my friend is – at least, I think I do. But I have no idea how to get there, having little experience in such matters. Miss Carnage, you are my first and last hope.’
‘Heavens.’ She tapped her pointed chin. ‘This is terribly unexpected, Ivy, what … what would you like me to do?’
‘Show me the books you spoke of.’
‘Book,’ said Miss Carnage firmly. ‘On the matters which concern you there is only one book.’
She looked about, then took me by the hand and led me to a far corner of the library, rarely visited by anyone – Australian Literature. ‘I haven’t seen it myself, but I have heard rumours,’ she explained in hushed tones. ‘The manuscript is the work of Ambrose Crabtree, a rather eccentric scholar who devoted his life to the study of mysticism and faraway places. He donated his research to the library, all contained in a single book called Lifting the Veil. The powers that be felt it was the dangerous ravings of a madman and ordered it to be locked away in a vault deep under the library.’
‘How thrilling,’ I said.
‘As I explained earlier, it belongs to a small number of works considered too radical to be on public display. Some people fear what they cannot understand.’ Her eyes seemed to bore into my own. They were filled with unbridled admiration. ‘But not you, Ivy.’
‘No, dear, not me. Nerves of steel. Courage of a hangman.’ Then a perfectly sensible thought occurred to me (I am prone to such notions). ‘If this book is so dangerous why did they not destroy it?’
The librarian’s eyebrows lifted. ‘Perhaps they thought it was too dangerous to destroy?’
Which made complete sense!
‘I cannot pretend that I fully understand what has happened to your friend or where she is,’ said Miss Carnage, ‘but I feel that if there is any book in the world that might be of assistance, it is Lifting the Veil.’
‘I quite agree,’ I said. ‘Now be a dear and fetch it for me.’
Miss Carnage shook her head. ‘Impossible. Ivy, I hope you did not think that I told you about this mystical manuscript – which would perfectly suit your particular needs – with the intention of giving you the book.’
‘Actually, dear, that is exactly what I thought.’
‘Mr Crabtree’s book is much too dangerous for you to be experimenting with. No, it is quite impossible.’
I sighed. ‘That’s violently disappointing, but I suppose I understand. I will just have to find another way.’
‘As I said, Ivy,’ said Miss Carnage hastily, ‘I couldn’t possibly help you. The manuscript is hidden away in a vault, under the library. To get there you would have to sneak through the back office, go down the stairs and walk all the way to the far end – the safe is concealed beneath an old printing press so as to avoid detection.’
Miss Carnage threaded her arm through mine and we headed back the way we had come.
‘Even if someone managed to find it,’ she went on, ‘they would not be able to open it without the key.’ Then she pointed casually at the lending desk and the office behind it, visible through a glass-panelled partition. ‘And even though it is kept in the bottom drawer of Mr Ledger’s desk, he is always about – except for Monday mornings when he takes his mother to the teahouse across the park.’ She looked very solemn all of a sudden. ‘I was foolish to even mention the book – please forget I ever told you anything about it.’
I smiled at the deluded nincompoop. ‘Already forgotten.’
After a morning of disgruntled rumblings, the bruised clouds finally reached breaking point on my walk home from the library. A rather heavy shower began to fall just as I turned into Thackeray Street. It was past noon – no doubt the Snagsbys had returned from Mrs Quilp’s and were furious with me – but for the first time since last night, my heart was light. For I had hope. And it was all thanks to Miss Carnage.
As she had prattled on, listing the reasons why Ambrose Crabtree’s book was beyond my reach, Miss Carnage had no idea that I was listening with terrific intensity. Picking up clues left, right and centre.
I was now in possession of all the information I would need to get my hands on Lifting the Veil. Waiting a whole week would be torture, but that manuscript was the best chance I had of finding Rebecca. Stealing it would take some doing, but I was equal to the task – for I have all the natural instincts of a cat burglar.
Quickening my step in a vain attempt to outrun the rain, I crossed the street and noticed for the first time a girl pacing back and forth in front of the Snagsbys’ house. She was holding an umbrella above her head and looked very smart in a dress of pale pink with a white-feathered hat.
I avoided a pooping horse tethered to a lamp post and was nearly at the front door when the girl stepped in front of my path and called me by name. Which was most unexpected.
‘I’m awfully sorry to bother you, Ivy,’ she said, glancing towards the house, ‘but I was very much hoping to have a word with you.’
‘Some other time, dear. I’m running late and Mother Snagsby is certain to have discovered that I haven’t dusted the viewing parlour.’
‘Of course, how rude of me,’ she said, her voice full of music. ‘It’s just that I have been waiting rather a long time to see you and it is most important.’
She was terribly pretty – heart-shaped face, rosy cheeks, blue eyes, silky brown hair piled most fetchingly atop her head. Without me noticing, this dazzling stranger had moved her umbrella to shelter us both.
‘Then you had better come inside,’ I said. ‘We can talk while I dry off.’
‘If you don’t mind, I would prefer that we talked out here.’
I was awfully keen to get out of the rain, yet my generous nature won the day.
‘All right then, spit it out.’
‘My name is Estelle Dumbleby and I need your assistance.’ Tears pooled in her eyes and she began to weep. She looked gloriously sad! ‘Forgive me, I am rather emotional these days, having recently lost my mother, Lady Dumbleby. I suppose you have heard of her?’
‘Wouldn’t know her from a boiled cabbage,’ I said kindly. ‘Were you after a discount coffin for Lady Dumbleby? We have a special offer this month – two for the price of one.’
Estelle looked startled (no surprise there, the special offer was a wonder!). ‘I am an orphan now,’ she said, lips all atremble, ‘which may seem an odd thing for a young woman of sixteen, but a girl always needs her mother, don’t you agree, Ivy?’
I shrugged. ‘I’ve done very well without one.’
‘But were you not recently adopted by the Snagsbys?’
‘Oh yes. Wonderful day. We blubbered from sunrise to sunset.’
‘When one suffers a great loss, it is very hard to know who to trust.’ Estelle Dumbleby smiled sadly. ‘The vultures begin to circle when an heiress comes into her fortune.’
‘I suppose you’re shockingly rich?’
The young woman let out a peal of laughter. ‘Yes, I suppose I am.’
‘I know just how you feel. Several months ago I came into a large fortune of five hundred pounds.’ I didn’t think it was necessary to mention that Mother Snagsby had taken the money. For safe keeping and such. ‘Great we
alth is a burden.’
Estelle nodded. ‘My mother was the one person in the world I could depend on and now …’
‘Haven’t you any other family?’
‘A great-uncle,’ said the heiress solemnly, ‘though he is very old and frail. I had an older brother too – Sebastian. He vanished when I was just a little girl, but I remember him well.’
‘How magnificently heartbreaking.’
‘It’s about Sebastian that I wish to speak with you, Ivy. My mother spent the past thirteen years trying to discover his whereabouts, but was unsuccessful. Upon her death I gained access to all of her papers and amongst them I made a remarkable discovery.’ She looked at the Snagsbys’ front door and her voice quivered. ‘In the days before my brother disappeared he visited this house on several occasions.’
‘That’s very mysterious! Why don’t you come inside and ask – ?’
‘I cannot do that,’ said Estelle, interrupting. ‘The investigator my mother employed interviewed the Snagsbys and they denied ever having met my brother. Without proof the matter was dropped – but I believe there is more to the story.’
‘You want me to ask the Snagsbys about Sebastian, don’t you, dear?’
‘I do not.’ She reached out and grabbed my hand. ‘I want you to do something far more devious, Ivy. I want you to dig – to dig deeply, look through their papers and records, keep your ears open, and see if you can discover a link between my brother and your parents.’
‘Why should I help you do such a thing?’
‘Because you know what loss is,’ came the mournful reply, ‘and I believe that if you were in my shoes and you had the chance to find the one you loved, that you would move heaven and earth to make it happen.’
My mind flew to Rebecca. She was not family. Yet I desperately wished to reach her.
I found myself nodding. ‘Let me see what I can find out.’
‘The Snagsbys must not know what you are up to,’ said Estelle firmly. ‘If they were to suspect anything … it could be very bad for you.’ The rain began to fall harder, thundering upon the umbrella above our heads. ‘Thank you, Ivy, your help has given me hope. Oh dear, I must let you go inside.’
‘How will I reach you?’ I said, shamefully eager to keep Estelle a moment longer.
‘I will be in touch. Goodbye, Ivy.’
Estelle hurried away and although I was now being pummelled by rain, I stood there and watched her go. Which is when a rather troubling question dropped into my head.
‘How do you know so much about me?’ I called after her.
But the pretty girl was already too far away. For she seemed not to hear me.
Chapter 6
Mother Snagsby pulled the curtain shut, settling back in the carriage with a huff. ‘Foolish driver,’ she grumbled. ‘Perhaps he has all day to amble across town, but I do not!’ She struck the roof with her parasol. ‘Hurry, you bumbling slowcoach, or we won’t reach Mayfair before noon!’
When I first stepped through the front door after my clandestine chat with Estelle Dumbleby, soaked to the bone and terribly late, I had expected the worst. But to my complete shock, Mother Snagsby did not throw anything remotely unpleasant at my head.
In fact, apart from asking why I had ventured out without permission, she seemed to accept my explanation (that I was researching suitably uplifting poetry) without suspicion. Even more shocking, she had not inspected the viewing parlour to see if it had been dusted.
Her good mood had sprung from the visit to Mrs Quilp’s sickbed. As luck would have it, Mrs Quilp dropped dead just minutes before the Snagsbys got there. Better yet, her husband had ordered several high quality accessories for the coffin.
When I had dried off and changed my clothes, Mother Snagsby announced that tomorrow she was taking me to be fitted for a new dress.
‘Mother Snagsby, you must not listen to those who gossip unkindly about you – neighbours, customers, anyone who’s ever met you,’ I said, when we set off for Mayfair the next morning. ‘Buying me a pretty new dress – which is sure to be of the finest silk, orange in colour, with a pretty lace trim and a white sash – is the act of a thoroughly generous soul.’ I patted her arm. ‘You are living proof that a person can be far more pleasant than they look.’
The carriage came to a stop, allowing a flock of schoolgirls and their teacher to cross the street.
‘Your new dress will be black – black, plain and sombre,’ declared Mother Snagsby. ‘We have several important appointments in the coming weeks and the blue dress simply will not do.’
I had a sudden urge to push Mother Snagsby from the carriage. Or at the very least, grab her lumpy nose and twist it viciously. Instead, I said, ‘Very well.’
My mind flew to Estelle Dumbleby and her mysterious and sorrowful request. Sneaking about and going through the Snagsbys’ papers and records seemed like a great deal of effort. Estelle’s story was perfectly tragic – dead mother, missing brother – but a girl only has so many hours in the day. And I had my hands full with the horrid business of Rebecca.
Besides, I was frightfully crafty in the art of digging.
‘Lady Dumbleby is dead,’ I said casually. ‘The whole city is talking about it.’
‘Who?’ said Mother Snagsby.
‘Lady Dumbleby,’ I said again. ‘She was from a tremendously important family. I seem to recall reading that there was an older brother. I believe his name was Sebastian. Apparently, he vanished in most mysterious circumstance many years ago.’
‘I don’t listen to gossip,’ came the sharp rebuke, ‘and neither should you.’
Things were going wonderfully!
‘You know, dear, if you have any secrets of the deep and unpleasant variety, you can share them with me, your loving daughter. For example, if you happened to have met a young man once or twice, who just happened to have vanished into thin air – and who hasn’t? – well, now would be the perfect time to spill your guts.’
‘Who have you been speaking with?’ Her voice hissed and the lines around her eyes scrunched into a tight map of valleys and peaks. ‘Listen to me very carefully, young lady – I do not know what became of Sebastian Dumbleby nor do I care. I will not speak of this matter again, is that perfectly understood?’
‘Don’t pop a cork, dear, I was merely trying to pass the time.’
Mother Snagsby took a deep breath. Parted the curtain again to look briefly at the streets rushing by. As she released the air from her lungs, the anger seemed to lift from her stern and rugged face.
‘When we return from the dressmaker,’ she said evenly, ‘you can accompany Mrs Dickens to the market. You eat such unreasonable quantities of potatoes and pumpkins, the poor woman cannot carry them all home by herself.’
Which was the ideal moment to talk of something far less controversial. ‘Mrs Dickens mentioned that you carry around a recipe book – which is wonderfully bonkers – perhaps you might make something for our dessert tonight?’
‘Mrs Dickens should hold her tongue.’
Oh dear. Had I stumbled upon another forbidden subject?
‘I adore family recipes,’ I said brightly. ‘The Pockets had a great many, passed down from one generation to the next. Most were lost following the tragic alligator pie incident of 1842 – Uncle Mortimer did not realise that the beast had to be dead before wrapping it in pastry. We lost seven Pockets that day.’
‘Do you ever talk sense?’ snapped Mother Snagsby.
‘Only in extreme emergencies, dear. Did it belong to your mother – the recipe book, I mean? Might I have a look at it?’
‘I sent a note to Mrs Roach yesterday afternoon,’ said Mother Snagsby, choosing to ignore my question, ‘and her reply came by the morning post. She and her daughters have accepted our invitation and they will come next Tuesday at three.’
I may have whooped with delight. But not for long. I could see the hint of something sad and troubled at play on Mother Snagsby’s unsightly face. There was a story behind her
book of recipes, I was sure of that. One that might explain a great deal about her sour nature.
And it gave me a rather glorious idea.
Our visit to the dressmaker did not get off to the greatest of starts. The dressmaker, Miss Upton, had a shocking pallor, dull eyes and rasping breath. Naturally, I assumed she was dead. Urged her to float away and head towards the light.
‘What on earth are you talking about?’ snapped Mother Snagsby.
She knew nothing of my ability to see ghosts. ‘I do not want to alarm you, dear,’ I said, pointing at Miss Upton, ‘for you cannot see the hideous apparition before me. Skin like a corpse. The stench of death about her. I would say more, but I’m much too refined – having all the natural instincts of a young Snow White.’
The dressmaker took offence. Said I was unspeakably rude.
‘She’s an orphan,’ explained Mother Snagsby, as I was told to step up on to a stool and keep utterly still, ‘entirely unwanted and without blood relatives. Mr Snagsby and I took pity on the child as she had nowhere else to go.’
Miss Upton threw a sheet of black fabric over me. Fortunately there was a hole cut in the top for my head, so I was able to look through the shop window on to the busy street.
‘You are a good woman,’ said the dressmaker, as she began sticking pins all around me, ‘to let a stray child into your home and treat her as your own.’
‘Indeed,’ said Mother Snagsby gravely, ‘we must all do our part, as the girl would be in the poorhouse if not for us.’
‘You’re wrong there, dear,’ I said. ‘I would be very welcome in the village where my mother is from. They think the world of us Pockets. Every winter one of the local women carves a statue of the entire family from frozen pig fat. It’s erected in the village square, right next to the one of Napoleon.’
Miss Upton and Mother Snagsby were gawking at me.
‘Foolish girl!’ fumed Mother Snagsby.
‘Excellent point, dear.’ Then I looked at my watch. Shook my head. ‘Come, Miss Upton, do hurry along, my legs are starting to –’
But I never finished the sentence. For I had glanced out of the window. And as I did, a slim woman dressed in a grey coat passed by. Brown hair. Spectacles. Head high. A brisk, purposeful stride. She appeared to be in a great hurry.
