Somebody Stop Ivy Pocket (4 page)

‘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 was 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.

A thrill rippled through my body as I stared deep into the heart of the stone. At first all that I saw were the stars in the moonless sky above London. But I waited. I knew, absolutely
knew
, that something was coming. Perhaps it would offer a vision about Miss Always. A clue of some sort.

The diamond throbbed in my hand. Heat pulsed from it
like a furnace. Then a white mist churned in the heart of the stone, swallowing the night sky. In its place, a forest of dark trees. Frost-covered ground. The mist blew with a fury and the trees began to bleed white, seeping up from the roots to the ends of the bare branches. In moments the whole forest was a ghostly white woodland.

Something streaked between the trees. A girl. Running. She wore a lavender dress. Blonde hair fanning out behind her. I recognised her instantly. Which is why I cried, ‘Rebecca!’

It was her. Unmistakably her. Was this some fragment of her past? She was running. Twisting through the pale trees. Stealing looks behind her.
Terrified
looks. Then the trees began to move. No, not trees. Locks – those hooded henchmen in dark cloaks who worked for Miss Always. They moved as one. Dozens of them, fanning out through the forest.

The girl stumbled. Fell. I saw her flinch with pain. She got to her feet and took off again. In a flash her face filled the stone. Just for a second. Cheeks flushed. Brow knotted anxiously. Eyes crackling with fear. And then it hit me. Rebecca was wearing the same lavender dress she had worn to Matilda’s birthday ball. Her
new
dress. Which could only mean one thing – Rebecca was alive! Somehow. Some way. She was alive. And something more. Something monstrous. Rebecca Butterfield was being hunted.

Mother Snagsby eyed me with considerable suspicion. ‘You do not look sick to me.’

‘That’s only because I have a naturally radiant complexion,’ I said, holding my stomach for good measure. ‘But I assure you, Mother Snagsby, I am as sick as a dog. Or at the very least, a badly neglected house cat.’

‘I suppose we should call for the doctor,’ said Ezra from the doorway.

‘There is no need for that,’ said Mother Snagsby, circling the bed like a lion eyeing its supper. ‘Ivy can come with us to Mrs Quilp’s – if she is
truly
unwell, the fresh air will do her the world of good.’

This discussion had been going on all morning. When Mrs Dickens came to unlock my door, she found me still in bed, looking gloriously feverish. The plan only came unstuck when Mother Snagsby marched into the room and declared me perfectly healthy.

‘But
why
must I go?’

Mrs Quilp had infected lungs and was expected to die any day now. And for reasons that I could not understand, the Snagsbys seemed determined to drag me to every deathbed in London. And while I wasn’t
exactly
unwell, I was certainly sick with worry about poor Rebecca.

‘The dying and their loved ones find it a comfort to have a child recite a suitably meaningful poem as the hour of death approaches,’ said Mother Snagsby sharply.

‘You’ve been awfully good for business, Ivy,’ said Ezra, scratching at his flappy jowls. ‘Since you’ve joined us, profits have shot up fifteen per cent.’

Which was delightful. What daughter doesn’t want to hear that she’s been good for business?

‘I’m sorry, but I cannot come.’

Mother Snagsby glared down at me, her splendid mole twitching above her lip. ‘Is this the sort of daughter you wish to be, rude and defiant?’

‘Only in a pinch, dear.’

Mother Snagsby turned her back on me and let out an exasperated sigh. Clearly this poetry-reading nonsense meant a great deal to the Snagsbys and their business. Therefore, I felt it was my solemn duty as a treasured daughter to take full advantage.

‘Death is wearing me down,’ I said with a sigh. ‘I have it on good authority that it’s hideously traumatic and unhealthy for a
girl of my age to be reading poems to the dying – and my source is a librarian, so we cannot doubt her credentials.’

Mother Snagsby turned back and lifted her head regally, the streak of white through her black hair giving her all the charm of a skunk. ‘Is that so?’

‘Yes, dear, I think it is. Now it seems to me that I could simply refuse to attend another deathbed. I might make a great deal of fuss. Embarrass you in front of the customers. Unless …’

The old crow’s mouth curled into a sneer. ‘Unless?’

‘Well, that’s not for me to say, now, is it? Of course, you
might
like to consider letting me rest today and regain my strength.’

‘Rest, you say?’ said Mother Snagsby.

‘That’s right. And it may be that you decide to let me have some company at the house. Nothing fancy. Just a few girls my age. I’m practically positive that these
small
concessions would be enough to lift my spirits and get me back to work.’

Mother Snagsby made no reply. Her craggy face was set in stone.

‘The Roaches,’ she said at last.

I frowned. ‘The Roaches?’

‘We have buried several of their kin,’ said Mother Snagsby frostily. ‘They are respectable folk and always pay on time. It is possible I could extend an invitation to Mrs Roach and her two daughters to come for tea.’

The urge to squeal with delight was awfully strong. But I resisted. It didn’t seem right in light of Rebecca. Instead, I nodded my head and said, ‘That sounds lovely.’

‘But I expect much in return,’ said Mother Snagsby. ‘You are to come with us to every appointment without complaint after today. And you are to perform your household duties without complaint. While Ezra and I are seeing to Mrs Quilp, you can
recuperate
by dusting the viewing parlour from top to bottom.’

‘Surely my time would be better spent lazing about eating crumpets?’ I said hopefully. ‘Or perhaps you might wish to paint me as you have Gretel?’

Mother Snagsby grabbed the cleaning rag out of Mrs Dickens’ hand and pushed it into mine. ‘Dust,’ she barked.