Somebody Stop Ivy Pocket (6 page)

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 wealth 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.

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.