by Caleb Krisp
Chapter 17
Mother Snagsby prowled the house again that night. She walked past my bedroom door at least a thousand times as she stalked the halls. Did she never sleep? I was waiting for an opportune moment to steal away to Winslow Street and journey once again to Prospa House.
I had stared and stared into the Clock Diamond, willing it to show me another vision of Rebecca. Just so that I might know that she was all right. That she hadn’t met some grisly fate on my account. But the stone offered only a sparkling night sky.
Following our conversation in her office, I hoped that Mother Snagsby and I had turned a corner. She had taken me into her confidence, told me all about her runaway daughter. But if Gretel was really Anastasia, why did Estelle not recognise her in the painting? It made no sense! Yet I did not dare question Mother Snagsby – she hardly looked my way over dinner. Offered little more than a severe word or two about the state of my apron. Everything was just as it had always been.
I heard Mother Snagsby moving past the door, her footsteps fading. Then silence. At last she seemed to have retired to bed. Then the click of her shoes as she turned and headed back again.
The old woman would tire in time. She had to. Until then, I would stay awake. Frightfully bright-eyed and alert. And when the moment was right, away I would go. At least, that was the plan. But my eyes grew heavy. My head dropped to my chest. I only closed them for a moment. Perhaps two. But alas, the battle was lost. At least for tonight.
The Snagsbys sent me off to Hackney with their blessing. In a carriage no less.
‘Tell Mr Grimwig that we offer an additional five per cent if he’s likely to expire in the next seven days,’ said Ezra, as I took off my apron and put on my bonnet. ‘That’s a very generous offer and no funeral home will do better.’
‘Yes, dear, I’ll give him all the grisly details.’
I had told the Snagsbys that a dear friend from Paris had written to me about her cousin Victor Grimwig, who was gravely ill, and in imminent need of a pine box and a hole in the ground. Mother Snagsby quizzed me on Mr Grimwig’s particulars – of which I knew very little, so naturally I made up something fascinating – and decided he sounded like just the sort of customer she liked.
‘Though I fail to see why we cannot come with you,’ she declared as the coach pulled up outside.
‘Mr Grimwig must not suspect that we are after his business – he’s a suspicious sort of character who rarely parts with his money.’ I smiled knowingly. ‘If you two grim fossils turn up he will wonder how you knew of his illness and turn you away. Allow me to lay the groundwork and when it is time to measure him up, you can come back with me.’
Mother Snagsby grunted. ‘We never turn down a customer at Snagsbys’ Economic Funerals, so I expect you to represent us well and bring home a sale.’
Despite the generous helping of troubles currently piled upon my plate, I had not forgotten my promise to the Duchess of Trinity. Yes, she was a hideous, murderous, double-crossing ghoul. But a small voice in my head told me that the Duchess might be of some further use to me. And I knew for certain that this wasn’t another one of her wicked schemes. For how could there be any danger in a discount coffin?
‘What’s this about then?’
Victor Grimwig was a great disappointment. Average height. Thin face. Largely bald, save for two fuzzy grey tufts above his ears. He was neatly dressed. Fond of black. And not terribly pleased to see me.
‘As part of a Snagsbys’ Economic Funerals Saturday bonanza we are offering one lucky resident of Hackney a stupendous discount on a high quality coffin,’ I announced, ‘and you, Mr Grimwig, are that lucky resident!’
Which was only a lie in the sense that it wasn’t at all true.
‘I don’t want a discount coffin,’ said Mr Grimwig, ‘thank you very much.’
‘You’re terribly welcome and isn’t it marvellous?’ I felt the moment was right to push past him and enter the small, but neat, sitting room. There were two cats on the window sill and another by the fire. I sat down on a faded armchair beside a potted fern and got down to business. ‘Would you prefer oak or something in maple?’
Victor stood in the doorway and coughed rather violently. ‘For what?’
‘Your coffin, of course.’ I smoothed out my apron. ‘Honestly, dear, keep up.’
Victor coughed again. ‘I can assure you that I am in fine health and have no need for any of your coffins.’
‘Stuff and nonsense. Half of our customers claim to be in fine health and just minutes later are as dead as a fence post.’
‘I have a cold, that’s all,’ he said.
‘A cold is the beginning of practically every fatal disease, surely you know that?’
Victor paled slightly. Closed the front door and sat down. A ginger cat on the window sill jumped down and sat in his lap. ‘It’s nothing to worry about, that’s what Doctor Benson said.’
‘Doctor Benson?’ I snorted magnificently. ‘Doctor Benson told my godfather he had a mild case of hay fever – the poor man had a sneezing fit that very afternoon which took his head clear off. It shot right through the dining room window and killed his horse.’
‘I think it’s you that needs a doctor,’ said Victor with a raspy chuckle. ‘I might have a cold, but you’re off your rocker, you are.’
‘You are losing him, child.’
It was her. I looked about the room frantically. But I couldn’t see a ghoulish ball of light or a ghostly apparition in the bright sitting room. Then I glanced to my left and sure enough, there was the Duchess of Trinity in the potted fern. She was about the size of my thumb, and looked rather like a water drop on one of the leaves closest to my head.
‘I have the matter in hand,’ I whispered.
‘What’s that you said?’ Mr Grimwig looked mildly concerned.
‘Your flair for invention has broken the spell,’ said the Duchess sternly. ‘The way to his heart is through his cats, but you must act quickly, child.’
‘Very well,’ I whispered, ‘now kindly shut your pie hole and let me get on with it.’
Mr Grimwig’s forehead was etched with a scowl. ‘Did you just tell me to shut my pie hole?’
‘Not you, dear – the gasbag in the fern.’
‘I will have to ask you to leave.’ Mr Grimwig put the cat to one side and stood up. Straightened his tie. ‘Does your mother know you’re out wandering the streets trying to sell coffins?’
‘Yes, dear, it was her idea.’ I crossed the cosy room and knelt down beside the black cat lying in front of the fire. I stroked the beast most tenderly. ‘I adore most animals as a general rule but these lazy fur balls are definitely my favourite. I can see that you take excellent care of them.’
‘I try my best.’
‘It must worry you terribly knowing that after you are gone they will be thrown in a sack and drowned in the river.’
‘Never! Not my boys!’
‘Yes, dear, I’m afraid so. Unless you have family who will take them in?’
Mr Grimwig hesitated. ‘Well … no, I don’t suppose I do.’
‘Haven’t you any relatives?’
‘Well, I had a cousin, but she’s gone now.’
‘You must miss her terribly.’
He laughed drily. ‘She loved money and little besides – there are turnips with more Christian charity than that duchess.’
‘Slanderous jackass!’ bellowed the Duchess. Then she must have remembered the greylands, for her voice lost its fury. ‘Oh, but such courage, to point out what a horrible creature I was and smear my name. Bravo, cousin Victor!’
‘Mr Grimwig, if you die without planning your funeral, the city will use your savings to pay for a coffin and plot. But if you took up our generous offer, and purchased a discount funeral, you would save a great many pounds. Pounds that could be left for the care and well-being of your cats.’
Judging by the way his nose was scrunched up, he appeared to be deep in thought. ‘There’s some sense in th
at, I suppose.’
‘I knew you were much wiser than you looked.’ I jumped up. ‘My associates and I will come next week to measure you up, collect payment and whatnot.’ I slapped his arm in the way all businessmen do when cementing a deal. ‘When the Snagsbys call, it would help a great deal if you had taken to your bed. Moan and groan. Dribble to your heart’s content. If you could wet the bed that would be thrilling. At Snagsbys’ Economic Funerals those close to death can save an additional five per cent.’
‘But I feel perfectly –’
‘Remember the cats, dear,’ I said sagely. ‘The less you spend on your funeral, the more you have for them.’
The delightful man nodded his head. ‘True enough.’
The Duchess of Trinity’s glow was alarmingly bright and filled the cab with ripples of blue light.
‘You have done well, child,’ she said, hovering above the seat opposite me as the coach carried me back to Paddington. ‘I am in your debt.’
‘Yes, yes, I’m overflowing with good deeds. Now tell me what is happening to Rebecca at Prospa House.’
‘I do not know the mysteries of the universe, child. One hears the faintest of whispers, the merest fragment passing on the wind … I only know that when the girl put on the necklace, her fate was sealed and her destiny tethered to this other world.’
‘How did Mr Blackhorn end up there?’
‘Perhaps he took a wrong turn.’
I folded my arms. ‘Are you not sorry for what you did to Rebecca? Because if you aren’t then our deal is off.’
‘I am crushed, child!’ wailed the ghost. ‘While I knew the stone was an instrument of death, I knew nothing of its other powers.’
‘And that’s supposed to excuse you?’ I snapped. ‘Because of you Rebecca didn’t reach her mother, which is all she ever wanted.’ The anger had drained from my voice and all that remained was sorrow. ‘Duchess, please help me – how do I bring her home?’
She sighed and it sounded like a lion’s growl. ‘I do not know, child – and I am sorry for that. But if it is answers you seek, may I make a suggestion?’
I nodded my head. ‘Go on.’
‘You’ve noticed that every Sunday your parents leave the house on private business.’
‘It’s hardly a secret. They go to Bayswater to visit Ezra’s sister.’
The Duchess was suddenly upon me, floating an inch from my face.
‘Follow them,’ she whispered.
Then the dead woman vanished through the roof of the carriage.
They set off on foot, as they did every Sunday, and walked to the train station. There they purchased two tickets and boarded a train. But not to Bayswater. Instead, as I sat in third class, one carriage behind them, we rolled out of London and headed south towards Sussex.
The Snagsbys got off at Arundel. Walked through the village without stopping. Over a small stone bridge. Along the only road leading out of town. I was magnificent. More shadow than girl. Slipping behind trees if Ezra stopped to wipe his forehead. Leaping into tall grass when Mother Snagsby turned her head even slightly. All the while staying wondrously undetected.
I expected them to turn at each farmhouse we passed, certain one of them must be their destination. They didn’t. Instead, they mounted a low hill and paused in a meadow, beyond which I could see a church steeple. Mother Snagsby and Ezra set to work, picking a large bunch of wild flowers between them. Then the ancient couple, backs bent, entered the solitary churchyard.
A low stone fence surrounded the vicarage, and I climbed it. Crossed the rather unkempt yard. Mounted the next fence and found myself not ten feet from where the Snagsbys had stopped. We were in a graveyard. I was hidden behind a crypt with a glorious marble angel on either side. The Snagsbys stood before a white headstone. I was too far away to read what was inscribed on it.
There was an urn with some wilted flowers at the far end. Ezra pulled them out. Fetched some water from a nearby pump. Then filled the urn with the wild flowers they had picked. As he did this, Mother Snagsby retrieved a cloth from her bag and a bottle of something or other and began scrubbing the gravestone.
I cannot say exactly how much time passed. When their jobs were completed, the old couple sat down on either side of the grave. No words passed between them. At one point Mother Snagsby’s rounded shoulders began to shake. Just a little. I believe she might have been weeping. When they were done, Ezra kissed his hand and pressed it to the headstone. But Mother Snagsby did not. Instead, she leaned forward and laid her cheek against the stone. Keeping it there for the longest time.
Then they collected their things and walked slowly from the churchyard.
When they were almost at the bottom of the hill, I bounded between the tombs and was upon the grave in question. The white headstone sparkled in the morning sun as if it were brand new. But it wasn’t. The date carved in the stone told the tale – it was over thirty years old. And as I read the record of who lay in the ground beneath my feet, I could hear my heart hammer in my chest. For it changed everything.
GRETEL MARGARET SNAGSBY
Beloved Daughter
Died, Aged Six
Chapter 18
I came upon him as I was making my escape.
‘Ezra?’
When I had arrived home from Sussex the Snagsbys were still out – they were ordering a new selection of coffin handles and accessories across town and had left word with Mrs Dickens that they would not be back until late afternoon. When they finally returned, I said nothing about what I had seen that day. Nor did I quiz Mrs Dickens. I simply hadn’t the words.
Mother Snagsby looked awfully tired. Barely touched her dinner. And retired early to bed. For once she did not walk the halls.
Which was why I had used my key to unlock my bedroom door and slip out. My destination was Winslow Street. But really, it was Prospa House. And Rebecca. But as I passed the hall, I saw a candle burning in the sitting room. Ezra was in his favourite chair, a nightcap upon his head, staring out at the dark night.
I entered the room. How could I not?
‘Ezra?’ I said again.
He looked up at me, his eyes clouding over. He scratched his whiskers and seemed rather puzzled. I understood his confusion.
‘The lock on my bedroom door must be faulty,’ I said, sitting on a wooden chair beside the window. ‘I was in need of light refreshment and was on my way down to the kitchen when I saw the candle burning in here.’
Ezra nodded. ‘Seems neither of us is in the mood for sleep.’
What I said next was both the only thing that made any sense and the one thing I hadn’t the right to say. But all else was stuff and nonsense.
‘I followed you today. I saw where you went. I know who is buried there.’
‘Yes,’ said Ezra.
‘You knew?’
‘Wasn’t hard to see you skulking about behind us.’
‘But why did you not try to stop me seeing where you were going?’
Ezra shrugged. ‘A secret can be a heavy thing to carry.’
‘Does Mother Snagsby know?’
‘I don’t think so,’ said Ezra, meeting my gaze. ‘I’d be awful grateful if we kept it that way, Ivy.’
‘Of course.’
In the half-light, I saw glimpses of Gretel’s portrait above the mantel. The one of her reading a book by candlelight. A pretty girl of fourteen or fifteen. An age Gretel Snagsby had never reached.
Ezra seemed to read my mind. ‘We waited a long time for our Gretel to come along and when she did, it’s fair to say she was a breath of fresh air and we were never the same again. She had just turned six when scarlet fever took hold … it was quick and cruel – she was gone in eight days.’
‘I’m very sorry.’
Ezra nodded again. ‘You’re probably wondering about the paintings.’
Now it was my turn to nod.
‘They allowed Gretel to grow up,’ said the old man, ‘to have the years that were taken from her. It keeps her
alive and I suppose it keeps her here with us. Customers would come to the house and remark on them and for those few minutes, Mother Snagsby would pretend our girl was still around. Eventually it was harder to tell people Gretel was dead than to pretend she had reached adulthood and was away in Paris. Do you understand, Ivy?’
‘Mother Snagsby lost her mind,’ I said thoughtfully, ‘and you were kind enough to go along with it.’
But Ezra shook his head. ‘Those paintings are how she kept her mind. They made the sadness and the weight easier to carry.’
‘Of course,’ I said at last.
‘We visit her grave every week. We know well enough that she’s gone, but when we glance up at her picture, there is life, Ivy, and we let ourselves imagine that she is just across the ocean enjoying her life in Paris.’
‘What baffles me is why Mother Snagsby would have me believe that Gretel had run away with Sebastian Dumbleby.’
This was the first moment I had seen any hesitation in Ezra’s face. He rubbed his jowls. ‘Well … I suppose it was less painful to pretend she had a daughter who ran away for love, than one whose little body hadn’t the strength to go on.’
I could accept that. But it demanded a follow-up question.
‘So who is Anastasia Radcliff?’
‘Just a girl who lived with us for a time,’ said Ezra, and even in the softness of his words, I heard new sadness. ‘She had run away from an unhappy home and turned up on our doorstep looking for lodgings. We gave her a place to stay and never asked too much – I won’t deny that her resemblance to our Gretel had a part to play in that.’
‘It was a second chance,’ I said rather boldly.
‘Yes,’ whispered the old man.
‘What happened to Anastasia, dear?’
‘You might say she followed her heart.’ He sighed faintly and offered me the smallest of smiles. ‘It’s late, Ivy, off to bed with you.’
I had a few other questions. But the old man turned his gaze back to the darkened window, and although he still sat right across from me, Ezra Snagsby had drifted away and was somewhere else entirely.
