by Caleb Krisp
‘And now you can barely remember your name. It’s monstrously sad.’
‘Mrs Snagsby would throw me out on the street if she knew,’ said Mrs Dickens, returning the pot of porridge to the stove. ‘I’ve never seen her so angry, not in all my years at this house.’
‘How was I to know there was gunpowder in the flour sack?’ I declared. ‘It was a small mistake – a few flesh wounds, the odd facial scar – nothing to fret about.’ A great wave of sorrow rose up and swallowed me. I looked up at the housekeeper and something in her kindly eyes made me say, ‘Mrs Dickens, why doesn’t Mother Snagsby like me?’
‘What a thing to ask!’ She sat down beside me. ‘Lass, you mustn’t take it to heart, though I admit she’s a stern sort of woman. That’s just her way.’ I saw her eyes lift to a small portrait of Gretel sitting above the hearth. ‘Give her time and she will warm to you.’
‘She must miss her terribly,’ I said, pointing to the picture.
‘You are right,’ said Mrs Dickens faintly. ‘It’s as if she doesn’t remember how to be happy without Miss Gretel around.’
‘How long has she been in Paris?’
The housekeeper got up suddenly and busied herself wiping the table. ‘Well, that’s a hard one … I’m not a great one for numbers.’
I put down the spoon and wiped my mouth. ‘Mrs Dickens, is there something you’re not telling me?’
‘If you have time to sit around talking,’ snapped a cold voice, ‘then you have time to sweep the front steps.’
We both turned as Mother Snagsby swept into the kitchen.
‘After that you can help Mrs Dickens set the drawing room to rights,’ she instructed. ‘It is still in a shocking state after the fiasco yesterday.’
I looked positively grim-faced. ‘About that, dear, I want you to know that I feel partly responsible for what –’
‘Save your breath, young lady,’ she snarled. ‘Complete your chores and keep your mouth closed – that is all I require of you.’
Then she turned her back and walked out. Which might have been rather soul-destroying, if not for the brilliant idea that blossomed inside my head. I took my bowl to the sink, all the while unravelling the mystery of Gretel Snagsby.
She wasn’t in Paris at finishing school. No, she was somewhere far more thrilling. The girl had fallen in love with a young man and had run away to be with him. And who was this dashing, yet sickly, young suitor? None other than the missing brother of Estelle Dumbleby, that’s who! Estelle told me that Sebastian had been ill and that he had formed an attachment to his nurse. A nursemaid who lived at the Snagsbys’ home. That girl was Gretel Snagsby!
Their love was of a most secret kind, owing to the fact that Gretel was a mere coffin maker’s daughter and Sebastian was a genuine aristocrat. Therefore, the young lovers decided to head for the hills and live out their days in exile. Hidden from view, but wondrously together.
And as I grabbed the broom and set off towards the front steps, I felt something like my old self again. How could I not? For now I had two missions. To save Rebecca. And to reunite Mother Snagsby with her runaway daughter.
‘But why must you take my keys, lass?’
‘I have to go out on urgent business and I know what a strain it will be dragging yourself up and down the stairs to let me back in.’
The solution to my first – and most pressing – mission came to me while I was wiping cake from the walls in the drawing room. Although my adventure the night before hadn’t been a complete success, I had at least managed to reach Prospa House.
So it was terribly important that I was able to escape my bedroom and try again. But I could hardly rely on the Duchess. Which is why I had to get my hands on the great bunch dangling from Mrs Dickens’ belt.
‘Your mother left strict instructions that you weren’t to leave the house,’ said Mrs Dickens (who was being shockingly difficult).
‘Mother Snagsby is meeting with her accountant and will be gone all afternoon,’ was my perfectly reasonable reply. ‘Besides, Mr Blackhorn’s service is tomorrow and we haven’t enough candles.’
‘But I bought a dozen last week.’
‘You poor, overworked windbag – that was three weeks ago,’ I said, sitting her down on the couch. ‘Is it any wonder you forgot to lock my bedroom door last night?’
‘I haven’t felt myself these past few days.’
‘Of course you haven’t. Your brain is faulty, your breath is criminal and your nerves are shattered.’
With heartbreaking tenderness I pushed her against the armrest and untied the keys fixed to her belt. ‘I must insist, Mrs Dickens, that you let me take these and I will return them as soon as I get back. Honestly, dear, you know it makes sense.’
Although the housekeeper had begun to sniffle, wondering aloud what would become of her, she had the good sense to agree with me.
I chose a locksmith in one of the less reputable parts of town. That way, there was no chance that Mrs Dickens or the Snagsbys would discover that I was having the key to my bedroom door copied. The locksmith was a gruff-looking fellow, but he asked few questions and said to come back at two o’clock. The cost would be two shillings. Fortunately, Mrs Dickens had given me five shillings to buy more candles.
Which meant a tidy profit for me. But as I had come by the money dishonestly (the candles Mrs Dickens had purchased last week were hidden in a drawer in the viewing parlour), I felt the only proper thing to do with the remaining three shillings was to spend it on cake and hot chocolate.
With a few hours to spare, I went in search of a suitable teahouse. It was while I was roaming the busy streets that I had a most peculiar feeling. People were rushing past me, this way and that, yet all the while I sensed someone or something shadowing my every step. I spun around. No sign of anyone slightly nefarious.
I darted to the left, vanishing into the shadows of a narrow lane. From this vantage point, wedged between a tavern and a tripe shop, I could watch the passersby. If there was a villain hot on my heels they would soon be revealed.
But no one even slightly underhand caught my attention. Just a gaggle of perfectly ordinary folk going about their business. Including Miss Carnage. Which was a remarkable coincidence! She passed by. Stopped. Walked back and stared into the darkened alley where I was safely concealed. Turned and looked in the other direction. There was a hardness to her gaze that I had never seen before. A kind of grim determination. Perhaps she had eaten some bad fruit.
I felt the moment was right to step out of the shadows.
‘Ivy!’ exclaimed Miss Carnage, adjusting her thick spectacles. ‘How unexpected! What on earth are you doing in this part of town?’
‘What are you doing in this part of town?’
Miss Carnage smiled tightly. ‘I am seeking out books,’ she explained. ‘A man in the next street has a collection of South American history that he hopes might be of some interest to the London Library.’
Which made perfect sense. A librarian’s life is full of such adventures.
‘I’ve had the strangest feeling I was being followed,’ I said next. ‘Then you appear as if out of thin air. Which is violently interesting.’
The librarian blushed. ‘I must make a confession, Ivy – I first spotted you from across the road and I was rather worried that you were on the trail of the unpleasant Miss Always again. So I decided to follow you and make sure that you were safe. Are you terribly cross with me?’
For the briefest of moments I had doubted her. But now I felt terribly foolish.
‘I’m here on most important business,’ I announced. ‘I would tell you all about it, but I’m afraid you would faint from the shock.’
‘Is it …’ Miss Carnage moved awfully close to me. ‘Is it to do with your friend who is far away?’
Miss Carnage was stupendously clever!
‘Yes, dear, in a way.’
‘I do wish you would go to the authorities, Ivy. I am very worried for your friend – and for you.
Most worried, indeed.’
‘Fear not, Miss Carnage,’ I said, slapping her arm gallantly, ‘I have the matter in hand.’
The librarian folded her arms over her plump belly. She looked wonderfully grave. ‘Yesterday I had reason to open the library vault and … and I was shocked to discover that Ambrose Crabtree’s manuscript was missing. Ivy, please do not feel that I am accusing you of any crime, but I must ask if –’
‘If I stole it and started tampering with the laws of time and space? Never, dear. Not for all the tea in China.’
Miss Carnage was still frowning. ‘I am very pleased to hear it, as I regret ever telling you about that dreadful book.’ Her gaze narrowed. ‘May I ask – have you had any luck locating your friend?’
‘I … I am yet to reach Rebecca.’ For some reason I did not wish to say any more.
‘But you have tried?’ said Miss Carnage carefully.
I nodded my head.
‘Perhaps not hard enough,’ she said rather abruptly. But her face quickly softened and once again she was her old self. ‘What I mean is, if there is some urgency to her situation, then you must do everything that you can – within reason, of course. Perhaps you would let me be of some assistance?’
‘Heavens no,’ I replied. ‘My plate is rather full at the moment, but you would be of no help at all, being a bookworm and whatnot.’
Miss Carnage nodded her head. Smiled faintly. ‘Yes, you are probably right.’
Falling asleep wasn’t the plan. The plan was to wait until the house grew dark. Until Mother Snagsby stopped pacing the halls. Then, with my new key, unlock the bedroom door, sneak out of the house and head back to Winslow Street in search of Prospa House.
But as I sat in bed and counted the minutes, sleep had come to claim me. And it was sleep of the deepest kind. I am certain that I would have not woken until morning, were it not for the Clock Diamond. It came to life in the still night, glowing like a lighthouse, and growing hot against my skin. I woke with a start. Quickly came to my senses. The house was utterly quiet – no sound of Mother Snagsby patrolling outside my door. The battered clock told me it was just past one in the morning. As I fished the necklace out from under my nightdress, the word Rebecca rushed to my lips.
I prayed that she would be there.
The night sky above London bloomed then faded inside the mystical stone, a yellow room taking its place. In it, an iron bed. Bare white floor. A chair against the wall. A girl curled up in it, wearing an ivory nightdress. Her face paler than before, dulled and slightly hazy, though the room around her was crisp enough. This time Rebecca wasn’t looking at me. Her gaze was distant.
‘Rebecca,’ I whispered. ‘Rebecca, it’s me, Ivy. Can you hear me, dear? Can you see me?’
The girl began to rock back and forth, her hair falling over her eyes.
‘Are you in Prospa House?’ I asked urgently. ‘Nod your head if that is where you are.’
She made no reply.
‘I will be back there as soon as I can and I will bring you home.’
Rebecca lifted her eyes. Just for a second. Looked right through the stone. Then her head dropped and she was shaking.
‘Talk to me, dear. Tell me exactly where you are so that I might find you.’
Rebecca glanced up suddenly. But not at me. Her eyes glistened with fear. A shadow crossed her face. Then a brutish arm seized her wrist. She screamed, but the sound was muffled and faint. The chair toppled over as the girl was wrenched from view.
Chapter 14
I had murder in my heart. Rage in my soul. And I was glad of it!
The walk to Stockwell had passed in a blur. I did not note the three-quarter-moon. Or the rain falling lightly on the cobblestones. I cared little for the fact that I was walking about London in my nightdress. My feet bare.
Rebecca was in grave trouble. Frightful peril. She was being treated monstrously. Who knew where that brute was dragging her away to? Nowhere pleasant, I was sure of that! A great ocean of fury churned and crashed inside me. Never had I felt such blinding anger.
As I turned down Winslow Street, the air appeared to thicken around me. It began to buzz urgently and somehow slow, though I continued to move with ease. The Clock Diamond was so hot against my skin I was certain it was blistering my chest. The stone’s glow erupted from under my nightdress, an orb of orange and yellow, lighting the footpath before me. I must have looked positively ghostly. Luckily, there was no sign of that tomato-headed constable.
Rebecca was a constant in my thoughts. But I did not think about where she was. Or if I would be able to reach Prospa House. For as I prepared to cross the street, the lamp post beside me melted into the footpath. The road beneath my feet, with its damp cobblestones, dissolved like mud and sank into the darkness, as thick blocks of silvery stone took its place. An empty carriage fell away. Number six of Ambrose Crabtree’s rules promised that strong emotion … lifts the veil. He was awfully clever for a crackpot.
Before I even reached it, the shoe factory and the boarding house on either side of the empty lot began to ripple and bend and blur. Then they vanished as if the earth had opened its mouth and swallowed them up. The ground shook, the buzzing intensified, and I was not even slightly shocked when Prospa House rose before me, with its ribbed columns, high white walls and countless windows. This time pale woodlands grew up around it, like thousands of ghostly guards surrounding the building. The effect was rather chilling.
Not that I had anything to fear. As I had learned on my last visit, I was something of a ghost in this world. Couldn’t even hold a door handle. As I walked the path between the blood-red hedges, I looked up to see if any of the windows had a light burning in them. As I did, I looked for the first time at the night sky. It was dark and empty, save for the three-quarter-moon. I might have wondered whether it was the same moon I had seen above London just moments before – if not for the fact that this moon had an emerald hue.
All the windows were darkened. I walked around the side of the building. Glanced up again. The warm yolk of candlelight glowed from a window on the first floor. It was open, the curtains fluttering gently in the night air. Even better, there was a rather large white tree close by, allowing perfect access to the window from a helpful branch. What a stroke of great fortune!
I heard the sound of muffled voices, the stomping of feet. But it sounded as if they were coming from the other side of the building. I felt safe enough to begin.
But how? How was I to climb a tree if I were little more than a spirit in Prospa? In a display of hot-blooded frustration, I hit the tree trunk with gusto and kicked it once or twice. Then gasped with delight. Reached out again and touched the tree trunk. It felt strangely warm beneath my skin. For whatever reason, I seemed to be more fully in Prospa on this visit.
I hitched up my nightdress and, gripping the trunk as if it were a rich aunt with no dependents, began my ascent. The tree was wonderfully knotted, so there were plenty of places to grasp. When it was within reach, I grabbed the lowest branch and moved from limb to limb, clambering up with ease.
When I was high enough, I crawled along the thick bough towards the window. Unfortunately, the branch stopped short of the window ledge. A certain amount of jumping would be required. I was now looking directly through the window and couldn’t see anybody about. Perfect. I tastefully assumed a squatting position, took a deep breath, then leapt into the air with all the enthusiasm of an ill-tempered kangaroo.
My landing was slightly clumsy. I heard something snap as my left leg hit the narrow stone ledge. Luckily, being half dead I am immune to such injuries and the pain dissolved in no time. I grabbed the sides of the window casing. Quickly found my footing. Slipped through the open window. The room was dark. Walls a gloomy shade of purple. Door shut. A half-burned candle sat on a low table.
I grabbed it to help me have a look around. The room was bare. An iron bed. Single chair against the wall. White floor. Apart from the wall colour, it was just like the room I had
seen Rebecca in. Which meant my friend must be close by. I strode towards the door with the kind of confidence only an invisible girl in a strange house can muster.
‘No more,’ came a rasping voice. ‘Please, not another one.’
I jumped. ‘Who’s there?’
The voice had come from the corner of the room. Naturally, I hurried there, candle extended. ‘It’s plain bad manners to skulk about in the shadows. Show yourself this instant!’
‘Not another one,’ said the voice again. ‘I haven’t … I haven’t the strength.’
The candle’s flame threw golden shadows upon the wall. It took a moment or two to find him – huddled in the corner, sitting upon the floor. I crouched down. Lifted the candle to get a better look. But the light made him flinch, his hands flying over his eyes. The man’s skin was terribly pale, almost transparent. It was as if you could see through it, to the purple wall behind. Which was most peculiar.
And just like Rebecca when I saw her in the stone, the poor man seemed to give off a faint glow. Not enough to brighten the gloomy corner of the room, but more like the last embers of a fading light burning within him.
‘Please … no more.’
‘I’m not here to hurt you, dear. I have come in search of my friend – her name is Rebecca Butterfield. Do you know where I might find her?’
‘You aren’t one of them?’
‘One of who?’
The man slowly lowered his hands. Lifted his head. Opened his eyes. He had sunken cheeks. Grey whiskers. A vacant stare. Still, there was no doubt. It was him.
‘Mr Blackhorn?’
Tears pooled in his eyes as they roamed my face. I cannot say if he recognised me or not. My thoughts were a tempest. How could I be face to face with Mr Blackhorn? The same Mr Blackhorn to whom I had read a charming bedside poem. The same Mr Blackhorn whose wife had a delightfully unruly wig. The same Mr Blackhorn who was to be buried by the Snagsbys tomorrow afternoon!
‘What happened to you, dear?’ I said urgently. ‘How on earth did you get here?’
