Somebody Stop Ivy Pocket

by Caleb Krisp

  I had never purchased a bullfrog before. But as I wasn’t very knowledgeable about frogs, giving five pence to the grubby boy next door for procuring the beast seemed a small price to pay. The reason for this slimy purchase was really very simple. Mother Snagsby needed cheering up.

  She barely said a word at breakfast, munching on her beloved bacon and poring over a stack of bills. Mrs Dickens was busy cleaning the attic (which was in a frightful state). I was to walk into town and buy a few yards of cream satin for the three coffins Ezra was finishing. It was business as usual. But how could it be now that I knew the truth?

  ‘You have errands to run,’ Mother Snagsby said, as I took her by the hand and led her outside, ‘and I have letters to write.’ She squinted in the warm morning sun. ‘What is so important and why could you not tell me inside?’

  I looked over her face intently, at the thick layer of powder papering over the ravages of time. The crow’s feet making tracks around her eyes. And the colossal mole on her upper lip. And then I thought of Gretel. And my heart melted for the irritable dingbat.

  While I could do nothing about all that she had lost, I could certainly fix one of her other burdens. With that in mind, I walked her to Mrs Dickens’ vegetable patch near the back fence.

  ‘Just what are you up to?’ she snapped, as I opened the gate and beckoned for her to join me by a row of carrots. I had my basket of ingredients hidden within reach behind the cabbages.

  ‘I am about to share one of my most highly anticipated natural remedies,’ I answered. ‘It is my gift to you and you shall have it forever more.’

  ‘If it’s anything like your sleeping remedy, I want nothing of it,’ she snarled. ‘I had a headache for three days!’

  She turned to leave. Which was out of the question. As such, I felt the kindest course of action was to put my boot behind her ankle and push her over. I am pleased to report that Mother Snagsby fell softly into the soil. The wind was barely knocked out of her. For I possess a light touch – having all the natural instincts of a butterfly. Or at the very least a well intentioned fruit bat.

  ‘Good God, what are you doing?’ She screeched like a crow (the grateful siren song of nervous excitement). Tried desperately to heave herself up – I suspect, to kiss my forehead.

  ‘Relax, dear,’ I said, dropping down behind her and pinning her arms with my knees.

  ‘Let me up, young lady!’ she thundered. ‘Ezra! Ezra, come quick, the girl has taken leave of her senses!’

  ‘Ezra is collecting wood from the mill,’ I told her, as I pulled the rope from my pocket and with tremendous affection tied her wrists to the fence posts.

  ‘You cannot … it’s a crime! Untie me this instant!’

  I was now free to retrieve my basket of goodies. I opened it and pulled out the tin of tea leaves, then the butter knife and the jar of treacle.

  Mother Snagsby’s fury vanished behind a rather frightful grin. ‘Are we to have a picnic?’ she said hopefully. ‘Excellent idea. Now you untie me and we shall sit here in the garden and enjoy our refreshments. It will be such fun! Hurry, petal, remove Mother’s restraints and we can get started!’

  I giggled and patted her flushed cheek. ‘Silly creature.’

  Just at that moment the bullfrog croaked rather loudly from within the basket.

  Mother Snagsby’s head shot up. ‘What was that?’

  ‘Indigestion,’ I said, smiling kindly. ‘Perfectly natural at your age so do not be embarrassed.’

  I took a handful of tea leaves and pooled them in my hand. Then I poured a large helping of treacle over it. Mixed it together into a sticky paste. All the while Mother Snagsby thrashed about, kicking her legs and trying to pull the restraints.

  ‘This is the foundation,’ I explained helpfully. ‘I will apply it first and then move on to the secret ingredient.’

  ‘Apply it where?’ snarled Mother Snagsby, pausing for breath.

  ‘That monster on your face, dear.’ I used the butter knife to spread the gooey paste all over the haggard old woman’s mole. ‘Do not misunderstand. A mole that large is gloriously interesting – I’m sure I could hang my hat on it – but I am confident that if we could remove this one stupendous blemish, there’s a perfectly dull funeral director just waiting to burst out.’

  ‘You dreadful girl! I will skin you alive! Don’t you dare do it – I demand you untie me!’

  I reached back into the basket. ‘It is time for the secret ingredient.’

  Which is when I pulled out the bullfrog. He was of average size. Yellow and green. Big mouth. Enormous neck. Croaked a few times in protest.

  There was a small amount of unpleasantness when Mother Snagsby saw the frog. Threats about sending me to work in a glue factory. Tying me to a lamp post and praying for lightning.

  ‘A bullfrog excretes all sorts of useful chemicals when terrified.’ While I didn’t like explaining my remedies as a general rule, I felt it only fair to reassure the sobbing creature, as she had now started calling for the gates of hell to open and swallow me up. ‘Chemicals that will eat right through the barnacle on your face. Are you not stunned?’

  ‘Stunned? Stunned? If you dare to put that slimy beast anywhere near me, I will see you hang!’

  She seemed to be expressing a slight hint of reluctance in moving forward with the treatment. The paste had begun to dry in the sun and was of a perfect consistency. The bullfrog was sure to stick with just a little pressure.

  ‘When this is over, we will hug like long-lost sisters and discuss a suitably luxurious reward.’

  ‘Do not do it, young lady,’ she growled. ‘I will lock you in your room for a thousand days and nights. I will see to it that your life is one long list of chores!’

  ‘Hush, dear, you’re spoiling the moment.’

  I gave a warm smile of encouragement then stuck the bullfrog to her face.

  Chapter 19

  Ezra tested the new lock and made a few adjustments.

  ‘There,’ he said, pointing with his screwdriver, ‘good as new.’

  ‘I don’t see why you had to change it,’ I said rather sullenly.

  It was my own fault, of course. I had told Ezra that the lock to my bedroom was faulty when I came upon him the previous night. And now there would be no journey to Prospa until I worked out a new escape route.

  ‘Mother Snagsby insisted,’ said Ezra, picking his toolbox up from the floor, ‘and I’m not inclined to argue with her today.’

  ‘She seems upset,’ I said, plopping down on the bed. ‘Have you two quarrelled?’

  A faint smile rose up. ‘I think she’s bothered about that business with the bullfrog this morning.’

  Oh, that. The bullfrog had been a terrible disappointment. I had decided to read to Mother Snagsby while we waited for the remedy to melt away her mountainous love spot. And had selected the next thrilling instalment of simply the best novel ever written: The Devilish Debutante. So engrossed was I in the tale – Evangeline had just pushed her fiancé out of a hayloft so she could marry her sister’s one true love – that I did not notice that the paste had begun to give. It was a great shock when the bullfrog dug its flailing back legs into Mother Snagsby’s chin and leapt to freedom.

  I chased the dishonourable creature, of course. But it vanished behind a row of parsnips. When I returned to Mother Snagsby, she had managed to untether the restraints with her forefinger and thumb. She’d jumped up and charged towards the house, pulling me by the ear behind her. Outrageous!

  Ezra took the new key from the lock and slipped it in his pocket. ‘Don’t worry yourself, Ivy. A good night’s sleep and Mother Snagsby will see things differently.’

  ‘Perhaps you might remind her that Mr Grimwig is to be measured for his coffin tomorrow afternoon – and that it is all thanks to me.’

  Ezra nodded his head and looked at me in a kindly fashion. Then shuffled off, just as Mrs Dickens burst through the door carrying a tray with my dinner upon it. Cold chicken and a glass of cider
. That was all Mother Snagsby had allowed.

  ‘You eat this,’ said Mrs Dickens, putting the tray upon the chest of drawers, ‘and in a spell I will see if I can’t rustle up a slice of pudding.’ She sat down on the chair and sighed. ‘Mrs Snagsby’s been running me ragged all afternoon.’

  ‘Probably my fault, dear.’

  The housekeeper giggled. ‘Did you really glue a frog to her face?’

  ‘If you know a better way to treat large moles, I would love to hear it.’

  Mrs Dickens giggled again.

  ‘I was just trying to do a good turn.’

  ‘I believe you, lass, but Mrs Snagsby takes a long while to warm to people and a bullfrog is not the way to do it! Her life’s been mighty hard and –’

  The housekeeper stopped.

  ‘It’s all right, I know all about Gretel.’

  Mrs Dickens gasped. ‘Who told you?’

  ‘A friend. I can understand that Mother Snagsby has suffered a great loss, that she suffers still, but I only wish she had told me herself.’

  ‘These are complicated matters.’

  I nodded my head. ‘I also know about Anastasia and how she came to live here.’

  Again the housekeeper looked positively startled. ‘What do you know exactly?’

  ‘That she fled an unhappy home and that the Snagsbys came to love her. And that she ran away with Sebastian Dumbleby and has not been seen since.’

  ‘That girl was head over heels in love, she was. Even when they weren’t together she would write Sebastian long letters … I’ve never seen a girl so giddy with love.’

  ‘What I don’t understand is why it was such a great secret?’

  ‘Anastasia was the answer to a lot of silent prayers, it seems to me,’ said Mrs Dickens, getting to her feet with a groan, ‘for she seemed to drop clear from the heavens. Talking about her brings back the sorrow, I suppose. It would be fair to say she became a second daughter.’

  My mind flew to Mother Snagsby with her cheek pressed to Gretel’s headstone. ‘I don’t suppose she has the heart for a third.’

  The housekeeper hurried over and kissed my forehead. ‘Eat your supper, lass, and I’ll see about that pudding.’

  ‘I’m here to see Estelle.’

  ‘Is she expecting you?’

  ‘Not exactly – but we are always dropping in on each other unannounced.’

  I had come about the letters the very next morning. After Mrs Dickens mentioned that Anastasia was always writing notes to Sebastian, I recalled Estelle making a similar comment. Which gave me a brilliant idea. Two, actually. The first was that if Sebastian loved Anastasia as much as I had been told, he was unlikely to discard her letters. Which meant they might be hidden somewhere ingenious in his private quarters. And as I was a gifted finder, I was certain to unearth them.

  The second brilliant idea was this – those letters might very well spell out where the young lovebirds planned to begin their new life together. So while returning to Prospa and saving Rebecca was proving monstrously difficult, I could at least reunite Mother Snagsby with the girl who had mended (then broken) her heavy heart.

  Now all I needed to do was get inside the grand house so I could begin my search.

  ‘Miss Dumbleby is not at home,’ said the butler firmly. ‘Good day, Miss.’

  The door shut before I could protest.

  Not willing to give up, I decided to try gaining entry through the kitchen, which was sure to be open. Unfortunately, a frightfully glum lump was sitting right in front of the door, shelling peas. It was Bertha. Estelle’s maid.

  ‘Do not mind me, dear,’ I said, trying to squeeze past her. ‘I just need to pop inside for an hour or two.’

  Bertha recognised me from my last visit and brightened. ‘Are you here to see Miss Dumbleby? I can fetch her if you like.’

  ‘Isn’t she out?’

  ‘Um …’ Bertha looked confused for a moment (I sensed this happened quite often). ‘’Course she is – I’d forget me own head if it wasn’t stuck on.’

  ‘Just between you and me, I have secret business here.’ I lowered my voice for added effect. ‘I am on the brink of discovering the whereabouts of the sweethearts who first fell in love under this very roof.’

  ‘Master Sebastian and Miss Radcliff?’

  I nodded. ‘Did you work here then?’

  ‘No, Miss, but my ma did.’

  I decided to plead my case once more. ‘The house I live in has seen a great deal of sorrow and I know, I just know, that if I could discover where Anastasia and Sebastian have gone I could make some of what is wrong, right again. At least a little.’

  Bertha put down her bowl of peas and stood up. But she did not turn and go into the house. Instead, she came down the stairs and said, ‘Follow me.’

  She led me to the stables as if we were two thieves in the night.

  ‘They aren’t together,’ she whispered, pulling me into a feeding stall.

  ‘Who aren’t?’

  ‘Master Sebastian and Miss Radcliff,’ came the surprising reply.

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘I don’t, not for sure, but my ma swore it was true.’

  ‘How did she know?’

  ‘It was nearly a year after Mr Dumbleby had vanished and Ma answered the door to a young woman who was searching for Anastasia. She asked to speak with Miss Estelle’s mother, Lady Vivian.’

  Oh. Was that all? It must have been Mother Snagsby or Mrs Dickens. But wait – why would they still be looking for Anastasia one year after she vanished? After all, they knew she and Sebastian had run away together.

  ‘Did this woman get a meeting with Lady Vivian?’

  ‘She wouldn’t see her,’ said Bertha.

  Now I was frowning. ‘But none of this proves anything about Sebastian and Anastasia. Why do you believe they are not together?’

  ‘Because the lady who came calling said that she had been on Anastasia’s trail for months and that the young woman had returned to London just a few days before.’ The maid bit on her bottom lip. ‘There’s more besides – this woman believed that Anastasia had already called at the house to speak to Lady Vivian on a most important matter.’

  I gasped and did not regret it for a moment. ‘And did she?’

  Bertha shook her head. ‘My ma spoke to Lady Vivian and she said Anastasia hadn’t darkened her door since the day she was dismissed.’

  ‘Why, why would Anastasia come back to London alone?’ And if she did, I was certain she would seek refuge with the Snagsbys, not the Dumblebys. And why had Estelle never mentioned this strange visitor? Perhaps she did not know!

  ‘Ma never saw any sign of Anastasia, but her mind was made up – she believed every word that red-headed stranger said.’

  It was those last few words that did it. Caused the tiny lumps to rise on my skin. The chill up my spine. ‘Did this stranger have a name?’ I said slowly.

  ‘Yes … no … oh, it’s on the tip of my tongue.’ The maid slapped her forehead. ‘I’m always getting muddled, I am. I’d forget my head if it wasn’t –’

  ‘Yes, dear, but luckily it is stuck on.’ I tried to sound calm and not the least bit agitated. ‘Are you sure you cannot remember her name? It might be rather important.’

  Bertha blushed and looked down at her feet. ‘I’d have to check with Ma,’ she said bashfully. ‘She remembers everything about her, from her freckles to her black dress. Ma said she was a pretty thing, but she dressed like an undertaker.’

  I could stand it no longer. ‘Was her name Miss Frost?’

  Bertha brightened like a burning building. ‘However did you know?’

  Chapter 20

  ‘So when I pass, let my kin rejoice from floor to rafter;

  And know that I have come home, to the sweet hereafter.’

  ‘Lovely, Ivy,’ said Ezra quietly. ‘Just lovely.’

  Victor Grimwig’s bedroom was small, but rather cheery. Soft afternoon sun drifted in through the picture window. A
chest of drawers and a fine armchair sat along the back wall. A jug and basin on the side table. Victor lay in a single bed with the blankets pulled up to his chin, his three cats lying around him like cushions. He was putting on a marvellous show.

  ‘Mr Grimwig, may I ask what your malady is?’ said Mother Snagsby, drawing the curtains and bringing a cheerless gloom to the bedroom. ‘Your colour is remarkably healthy.’

  ‘He has an incurable head cold,’ I said quickly. ‘Isn’t that right, dear?’

  Mr Grimwig coughed violently. ‘Oh yes, very true.’

  ‘Well done,’ I whispered. ‘If you could throw in the occasional exhausted shudder I think that extra discount would be guaranteed.’

  ‘I’ve taken a sleeping tonic,’ he replied in hushed tones, ‘to make it more convincing and such.’

  ‘Forgive me, Mr Grimwig,’ said Mother Snagsby as she retrieved a sample board from her bag with a series of brass, gold and silver handles fixed to it, ‘has your doctor given you any idea how much time you have left with us?’

  ‘Not long at all,’ I said with suitable regret. ‘Mr Grimwig’s doctor believes he will snuff it within the week. Hopefully sooner.’

  ‘I see.’ Mother Snagsby handed the board to Ezra and then asked Mr Grimwig if he would mind if she heated some milk.

  ‘Don’t see why not, though I’m not thirsty myself.’

  As Mother Snagsby walked briskly from the room, Ezra ran through a list of options regarding Mr Grimwig’s coffin. In response Mr Grimwig selected the very cheapest fittings money could buy.

  ‘Didn’t I tell you things would work out splendidly?’ I said, fluffing his pillows with great care.

  ‘Now, Ivy, you let Mr Grimwig rest,’ said Ezra, taking the tape measure from around his neck. He pointed to the chair against the wall. ‘Mother Snagsby and I will finish things.’

  I looked back at the door to ensure the old goat had not yet returned.

  ‘Ezra, how well do you know Miss Frost?’

  After my conversation with Bertha, I could not get the tomato-headed governess out of my mind. Some great mischief was afoot if Miss Frost was involved! But I had been denied any opportunity to confront the Snagsbys with what I had learned – the carriage was already waiting to take us to Mr Grimwig’s when I arrived back from Estelle’s house.