London was just as I had left it. Grim. Filthy. Miserable. But my mind was elsewhere. What on earth was Miss Always doing getting into a carriage with that strange little man? A strange little man Miss Always claimed I had hallucinated due to seasickness! It made no sense. None at all. And hadn’t she said that her publisher would be meeting her at the pier? I stopped outside the terminal and put down my carpetbag, a cyclone of thoughts spinning through my mind. That hooded dwarf had forced Miss Always into the carriage at knifepoint. Yes, that must be it! No, wait. Miss Always had climbed into the carriage after the strange little fellow.
“Think, Ivy,” I said aloud. “You’re a brilliant girl. Just think.”
For a fleeting moment, the Clock Diamond popped into my mind. Instinctively, my hand flew to the pocket of my new royal-blue dress. I felt for the precious jewel. It was there. Safely sewn in. How stupid of me! Yes, Miss Always had taken an interest in the Countess’s one-of-a-kind diamond. But only because I had told her about it. And in the end, she hadn’t wished to see it at all.
I thought a little harder. It only took a moment. Perhaps two. Using my natural instincts (which would rival a writer of penny dreadfuls), I quickly solved the puzzle of Miss Always and the hooded stranger. The black carriage did indeed belong to Miss Always’s publisher. And her mysterious traveling companion was the publisher’s long-lost son. I was certain the young man was a pitiful creature—monstrously short, face like a chimpanzee, heartbreakingly stupid—banished from England after a scandal and forced to live in France with a brutish uncle. The poor chap had snuck onto the ship, desperate to return to his family, but terrified of being rejected. The kindhearted Miss Always had befriended the stowaway and learned his tragic tale. Delighted to be of help, she had arranged the ship-side reunion I had just witnessed. A father and son, separated by an ocean, now reunited. It made perfect sense!
Nothing gets past Ivy Pocket.
It was late afternoon. Eager to get on with my adventure, I took a rickshaw into the city, intending to spend the night in a suitably fancy hotel. I had ten pounds left from the voyage, and as I was soon to deliver the Clock Diamond to Matilda Butterfield and collect the bulk of my reward, I figured I could certainly afford a little luxury.
Unfortunately there was some trouble at the hotel. The Grosvenor was suitably grand, but apparently twelve-year-old girls aren’t supposed to stay in deluxe suites all on their own. Ridiculous! I told the manager (who had teeth like a walrus), that I was in London to meet my neglectful parents—self-absorbed mathematicians helping the British government decode a Russian cable concealed in a circus elephant’s left hoof. All very top secret. Thousands of lives at stake and whatnot. The manager didn’t believe a word and I was just about to tell him what I thought of him when—
“Miss Pocket?”
I turned around to find a tall man standing right behind me. Gray hair. Stern eyes. Long face. Dark suit. Top hat. He regarded me coolly. “Miss Pocket?” he said again.
I nodded. “Who are you?”
“That can wait,” he said firmly. “Come, let us take a walk.”
Now I am not one to go strolling with strange men. But the remarkable thing was, I felt I didn’t have a choice. Top Hat walked out of the hotel without another word, and like a lemming I followed after him. Extraordinary!
We walked to St. James’s Park and took a seat under a maple tree. He told me his name was Horatio Banks, the Duchess of Trinity’s lawyer. How he had tracked me down was a mystery that he was unwilling to shed any light upon. But on other matters, he had much to say.
“Tell me about your voyage,” he said, looking at me with his fierce green eyes. “Any strange occurrences? Anything unusual?”
“Nothing. I was on my guard,” I said.
“Did anyone befriend you?” he asked.
“Hundreds of people, dear. I’m the sort of maid who attracts a crowd.”
Horatio Banks cleared his throat. “Did anyone show an interest in the Clock Diamond? Did anyone know you were traveling with it?”
“Mr. Banks, do I look like someone who would go blabbing to strangers about the Clock Diamond?” I could have told him about Miss Always, but what was the use? She was a penniless writer. An innocent spinster. Terribly fascinated by me. But delightfully clueless.
He got up from the bench and began to pace back and forth in front of me. He pressed his finger to his lips and frowned a great deal. Then he stopped and turned to face me.
“You’ve heard about the Duchess of Trinity’s murder?”
“Oh, yes. Terribly sad. Monstrously tragic. I can’t imagine who would do such a thing.”
“I can,” said Mr. Banks grimly. “Miss Pocket, did you see anything suspicious, anything at all, when you were in the Duchess’s apartment in Paris?”
“Nothing.” I didn’t see the point in telling Mr. Banks about the mysterious woman at the keyhole. The vision proved nothing. And besides, I suspected he would gladly try and separate me from the diamond. And without the diamond, there would be no five hundred pounds.
“What did the Duchess tell you about the stone?” he asked.
“Only that it’s rare and valuable, and it was her dying wish that I present it to Miss Matilda at her birthday ball.”
“I don’t like it,” muttered Mr. Banks. “The Duchess refused to tell me how she came to possess this mysterious diamond—I just know that it cost a sizable chunk of her fortune. When are you leaving for Suffolk?”
“Tomorrow morning,” I said, tightening the bow on my braid (it seemed the right moment).
“Very good,” he said. “There is a deeper mystery at play, Miss Pocket, and I intend to find out what it is. I am still baffled as to why the Duchess would wish to give such a priceless jewel to Matilda Butterfield—a girl she had never met before.”
“There is no great mystery there, dear,” I said matter-of-factly. “The Duchess had a falling-out with Matilda’s grandmother decades ago. The necklace is a peace offering. Old people are awfully keen on such things.”
“Miss Pocket, I believe there is a direct connection between the Duchess’s murder and the Clock Diamond. I also believe you were probably followed from Paris.”
Poor man. He was shockingly melodramatic. I suspected he had a fondness for the theater. “Mr. Banks, wake up. If someone was stalking me on the boat, they would certainly have struck by now.”
Horatio Banks looked stumped, which I found rather thrilling.
“There’s a bigger picture here,” he said at last. “But I cannot see it as yet.”
“Well, I can,” I told him. “I will leave in the morning, stay a few days at Butterfield Park, and give the necklace to Matilda at her party. Then you will pay me my money, and this whole thing will be at an end. Agreed?”
He did not.
“The Duchess has a town house in Belgravia. I’ve arranged for the housekeeper to open a few of the rooms for your use.” He handed me a card. “Here is the address. Collect your things and be at the house by three o’clock. I will meet you there.”
I protested. Stomped my feet. Stuck out my tongue. Nothing worked. Which was infuriating!
“If you want your payment, Miss Pocket,” said Mr. Banks, “you will do as I say. I have an important meeting across town; otherwise, I would escort you myself. Talk to no one. Do not tell a soul where you will be staying. Are we clear?”
“Perfectly,” I said in my most sullen voice (which is astoundingly sullen).
Then the beastly man spun on his heel and stalked away without so much as a good-bye. He stopped suddenly and turned back. “I worked for the Duchess of Trinity for forty years, and in all that time, I never knew her to trust a single person,” he said. His eyes narrowed and fixed on me. “Why did she pick you to deliver the Clock Diamond? Why you, Miss Pocket?”
I smiled sweetly. “Oh, I just assumed you knew, dear—I’m one of a kind.”
Mr. Banks may have smiled then. Just for an instant. Then he tipped his hat and walked away.
My journey to Belgravia was unremarkable. Except for one thing. I bumped into Miss Always. Quite by accident, of course. She was taking a walk in the park just as I was leaving. The poor creature was thrilled to see me. Hugged me several times. I was curious why she was still in London. She explained that her publisher had asked her to stay on and discuss her new manuscript. Apparently it was shockingly dull and needed more “color” and “excitement.” Miss Always seemed bitterly disappointed. She talked a great deal about the changes she had in mind. But I stopped her. For I had questions.
“Miss Always,” I said gravely, “I saw you leaving the ship. You got into a carriage with that little hooded man. The one you said I had imagined. Care to explain?”
Poor Miss Always looked stunned. Her mouth dropped open. Her eyelids blinked rapidly. She adjusted her glasses. “Well, Ivy, that is a very good question.” She looked at me keenly. “Nothing escapes your notice, does it? Tell me—what do you think I was doing with that little man?”
What a clever woman! She knew that I was full of startling insights. I told her my theory. About her publisher and the hooded dwarf being long-lost father and son. About the poor little man being exiled to France following a scandal. About her role in reuniting them.
My friend gasped. “Ivy Pocket,” she cried, “you are a wonder! Everything you have said is true. How do you do it?”
I spent the next several minutes explaining my brilliance to the baffled writer.
“Where are you staying?” asked Miss Always casually. “On the ship, you were not sure which one of your grandmother’s many houses you would be lodging at. I am sure the matter is now settled.”
“Oh, yes, thoroughly settled,” I said, pushing a lock of hair behind my ear. “Grandma has a fine house in Belgravia. I am staying there.”
“How grand.” Miss Always leaned closer. “Where exactly? I only ask because I am leaving London after my meeting and I would like to write to you.”
Of course I remembered Mr. Banks’s warning—“Do not tell a soul where you will be staying.” But that hardly applied to dear Miss Always. Besides, the Duchess’s London home was sure to be terrifically impressive. Just the place for Grandma Pocket to live. I gave Miss Always the address. She wrote it down rather furiously in her notebook. Closed the notebook. Opened it again. Read the address out to me so as to confirm it. Questioned me again about my plans. Was I sure I would stay in Belgravia tonight?
Poor Miss Always. I was touched that she found me so fascinating. But I was anxious to get going. We parted with a hug. Miss Always promised to write to me that very night, and I promised to read her letters when I could find the time.
I reached the Duchess’s town house in Belgravia just before three o’clock and was ushered inside by Mrs. Vans, the housekeeper, a toothless, red-faced butterball of no importance, who quickly vanished into the kitchen to smoke her pipe. Horatio Banks was waiting for me in the drawing room, still in his dark suit and top hat. He quizzed me about my activities and seemed rather fixated on my meeting with Miss Always.
“I would like to meet this friend of yours,” he said sternly. Then he forbade me from leaving the house. Said it was much too dangerous. So dangerous, in fact, that he had decided to chaperone me until I was safely on the train to Suffolk.
Even worse, the crusty old lawyer insisted I write a note to Lady Amelia Butterfield (Matilda’s mother), informing her that I had a birthday gift for her daughter from the Duchess of Trinity. He said it was the proper thing to do. As if I needed a lesson in manners! With the note written, Mr. Banks vanished into the Duchess’s study to attend to some legal matters, issuing me strict instructions to stay in the drawing room and read a book. Naturally, I promised to do just that.
Alone at last, I set about exploring the Duchess’s house.
It was old. Dusty. Full of outdated furniture. Faded carpets. Vulgar antiques. Even the paintings on the walls were dull and lifeless. The Duchess had appalling taste.
I wandered through a series of tragic rooms on the upper floors. The furniture was covered by sheets, and the windows were shuttered up. There was only one chamber of interest among the dozen I explored. The music room. It was as stuffy and dark as the rest, but a sliver of light from the late afternoon sun washed in between the shutters, illuminating the grand piano like a spotlight. I sat at it. Opened the lid. My mind immediately flew back to the Duchess’s hotel suite in Paris. Something stirred in me. A kind of fluttering in my stomach. Which is probably why I played “Row, Row, Row Your Boat.” Or perhaps I had a hunch. Either way, I wasn’t completely shocked when I played the final note and a cranking sound sprang to life deep within the piano. A panel drew back. A darkened cavity. I reached in. Felt around.
Nothing there.
I admit, I was rather disappointed. I suppose I was secretly hoping that the Duchess might have other hidden treasures. I tore at the thread of my pocket, pulled out the Clock Diamond, and placed it inside the hidden chamber. It would be much safer here than in my pocket. There was another reason. I’d become rather preoccupied with the stone. I was thinking about it a great deal. Remembering how it felt to wear it. Picturing what I saw when I looked into it. The girl who was me. And the glorious, blinding light. And the darkness.
“Stuff and nonsense,” I said aloud. I closed the piano lid. The panel slid back, vanishing into the woodwork. Then I went off in search of food.
The evening was devastatingly dull. Horatio Banks was buried in his papers. Mrs. Vans stayed holed up in the kitchen smoking her pipe. I read a little. Wandered about looking at the Duchess’s odd collection of art—she had a fondness for marble statues of animals dressed in evening wear.
It was almost a relief when Mr. Banks ordered me to bed.
The mattress was gloriously soft. The pillow, a delight. Sleep came quickly.
I’m not sure what woke me. The snap of a floorboard? The low murmur of a window being pushed up? Something, anyway. My eyes shot open. My nerves afire. The bedroom was a patchwork of shadows—a splash of moonlight slipped in through the parted curtains. Then something else. On either side of my bed. Two small figures scurrying away. I leaped up. At least, I tried to. But I couldn’t move. Not an inch. I was strapped down—the bedsheets pulled tightly across my body with the sort of enthusiasm usually reserved for mummified pharaohs. I struggled to free myself. Wiggled and kicked. But it did little good. I was utterly trapped!
A pair of shadows flew across the room and out the door.
A current, urgent and hot, surged through my body. The Clock Diamond! I gritted my teeth and pushed hard against the impossibly tight bedsheets. I pushed and kicked with all my strength. Did a large amount of grunting. Wiggled my shoulders. At last the restraints began to give a little. Showing heartbreaking strength and perseverance, I managed to loosen the sheets enough to wriggle my way up and out. Not unlike a caterpillar.
Once on my feet, I could see that my bedroom chamber had been ransacked—drawers opened, clothes scattered. Had they come for the Clock Diamond, just as Mr. Banks had predicted? I was sure they had. Luckily the stone was hidden away in the Duchess’s piano. It would be impossible to find.
Flying out of my room, I crossed the landing and hurried down the curved staircase. I wasn’t afraid. Not a bit. In fact, I was monstrously calm—having all the natural instincts of a sedated cow.
“Shhhh!” A woman’s voice. Coming from the drawing room. Then hurried footsteps. They grew louder. Indeed, they seemed to be coming right towards me! I stepped back against the wall, vanishing into the shadows. Two figures dashed across the darkened entrance hall and disappeared into the kitchen. As villains went, they were remarkably short. A cauldron of anger bubbled up in me. Monstrous thieves! I stepped out of the shadows and raced after them, fully prepared for battle.
The kitchen was gloomy and still. A candle flicked on a bench. Copper pots and pans hung from an iron rack above the table. Mrs. Vans was sound asleep in a rocking chair, a spent pipe dangling from her lips. A fire still burned in the large open hearth. No sign of the intruders.
I walked around the table. Looked under it. Nobody there. Perhaps they had fled out the back door? I was about to check when a plucked chicken came flying out of the larder. Followed by a side of beef. Then a sack of potatoes. I ducked behind the table just as the two little intruders came scurrying out. They wore dark robes, their faces concealed by hoods. I thought immediately of the strange little man getting into the carriage with Miss Always. The resemblance was striking. Which was odd. One of the devious dwarfs had a large bag of flour in his hand—he tore it open as if it were made of wrapping paper, and emptied the contents onto the floor.
Filthy beast!
The villains stopped suddenly. Then turned their heads in perfect unison. They appeared to be staring straight at me! Then the blackguards split up, taking rapid little steps as they rounded the kitchen table from either side. In moments they would be upon me. I jumped up and grabbed a pot from the rack above. I felt something coil around my left wrist. With no time to spare, I swung the pot as forcefully as I could—hitting one hooded cretin in the head. He tumbled to the floor.
The second intruder made a beastly hissing sound. His face was hidden by the hood, but I was certain he was an ugly little wretch! I reached for another pot, but too late. The four-foot fathead grabbed my arm and flung me across the table as if I were a rag doll. The nerve! I slid across the table, flew off the other side, and rolled over the stone floor. Remarkably, I was unhurt and jumped quickly to my feet. In seconds both my attackers were upon me again. The one to my left struck first, his hideous talons reaching for my throat. With no suitable weapon in sight, I grabbed a handful of flour from the pile at my feet and threw it in his face. The tiny brute hissed. Shook his head. Stumbled back.
His accomplice lunged for me. I bolted across the kitchen, jumped on a chair, and leaped onto the table. A shadow flew past me. I felt a hand from behind grasping for my ankle. My options were rather limited. They had me surrounded. The only way to go was up. With momentum on my side, I reached for a hook hanging from the iron pot rack above my head. I swung at great speed just as the hooded thief appeared before me. I let go of the rack. Flew through the air. My foot connected wonderfully with the villain’s head, knocking the stuffing out of him. I felt like whooping with delight. Unfortunately, there was no time. For I was still rocketing through the air. With no way of stopping myself, I flew over Mrs. Vans’s head with gusto.
Then crashed right into the fireplace.
Which wasn’t at all good.
My body landed in a tangle. A burning log crumbled beneath me. The flames raged—licking my legs and my arms. Smoke billowed. I heard Mrs. Vans scream. And then . . . darkness.
The housekeeper pulled me out. She was hollering a great deal. Crying and praying and whatnot. It only took a moment or two, and I was wide awake. I blinked several times. The fire in the hearth had been doused. My arms and legs (and no doubt my face) were covered in soot and ash. But I was unhurt. Not even a slight burn or red mark, Mrs. Vans informed me. She looked thoroughly befuddled. Said the flames had swarmed around me. Said it was a miracle. I very much doubted that. I was certain my nightdress had snuffed out the fire.
Then I remembered.
“The intruders,” I said, getting to my feet. “Where did they go, Mrs. Vans?”
The housekeeper had no idea what I was talking about. Indeed, she seemed to doubt my story. Then we heard it. A crash—probably a vase breaking. It came from the drawing room. Mrs. Vans looked terrified.
“You must wake Mr. Banks,” she whispered frantically. “And I will call for the constable!”
“No time, dear,” I said.
Mrs. Vans tried to stop me as I ran from the kitchen—but she was no match for Ivy Pocket.
I charged majestically into the drawing room, and I was met with a scene of utter destruction. The whole room had been turned upside down. Moonlight pooled in the middle of the floor like a milky pond, while shadows clung to the corners and walls. I saw movement in the darkness. One of the tiny hoodlums was riffling through a bookcase by the window. The other was busy pulling out drawers at a writing table. Both had their backs to me. I searched among the wreckage for a suitable weapon.
To my right was a marble statue of a bear dressed like a footman in a frock coat and bow tie. Perfect. I picked it up and lunged at the nearest villain. He seemed to sense me, turning around as I swung the statue at his head. But “turning” is not really the correct word. The tiny blackguard spun on the spot! At great speed. Rather like a spinning top. So fast and so furiously that it created a violent gust of wind. It lifted me off my feet and sent me flying back. Which was shameful. I wasn’t the kind of girl to blow away in a breeze!
I landed with a thump against the wall—my head and back bearing most of the impact. The statue broke in my hand, gouging a large hole in the wall. I fully expected to have broken a bone or two. Perhaps a crack in the skull. But no. I felt slightly sore, but everything else seemed to be in full working order as I got to my feet.
My quick recovery seemed to fascinate the intruders. They looked at me, heads tilting in unison. Then I heard a dry laugh from the shadows.
“Remarkable,” hissed a voice. It belonged to a woman. It was faint. But cold as ice.
“Who are you?” I shouted, unable to see this third intruder. “Show your face!’
I reached for the closest weapon—which, unfortunately, was a bowl of fruit. With a pear grasped in each hand, I walked toward the curtain of shadows. The villains stepped forward in unison, blocking my path.
“I must warn you,” I said firmly. “At Midwinter Hall I once felled a runaway chimney sweep with only half an apple. So just imagine how lethal I could be with two pears!”
At that moment Mr. Banks thundered into the room, brandishing a pistol and making all sorts of declarations about policemen and putting hands into the air and whatnot. There was sudden movement in the gloomy half-light. I saw a shadow bolting along the wall. The edge of a dark shirt flaring in the moonlight. The woman jumped through the open window, followed by the two hooded henchmen—who seemed to dive into the thick swarm of dusk right behind her.
