5

“Miss Pocket, explain yourself!”

Horatio Banks was not at all happy. He was pacing back and forth in the drawing room as the police scurried about. His endless forehead bulged with purple veins. His steely eyes looked me over as if I were a regular halfwit. The nerve!

“Why would you attempt to take on these thieves by yourself?” he barked. “Have you any idea what might have happened to you?’

I was magnificently composed. “I am perfectly capable of dealing with a few hooded dwarfs, dear. As you can see, I had the situation under control.”

Mr. Banks pointed to the hole in the wall. Which was terribly unfair. “It doesn’t look like it, Miss Pocket!” he thundered. “And from what Mrs. Vans has told me, you very nearly burned to death.”

“And not even a mark on her,” said Mrs. Vans, clutching her rosary beads.

“Miss Pocket, the deal is off,” said Mr. Banks gravely. “The situation is far too dangerous. As the executor of the Duchess’s estate, I am empowered to make decisions concerning her property. That is the law.”

I was stunned. I hadn’t expected this. Call off the deal? Could he do that? I could see the five hundred pounds slipping from my grasp. But I hadn’t just fallen off the turnip truck. I knew precisely what was needed. Which is why I began to sob. Rather hysterically.

“I’ve had an awful night!” I wailed. “Horrible! Treacherous!”

Mr. Banks regarded me coolly. Before he had a chance to speak again, I launched my offensive. Sparing no detail, I recounted the events of the evening. Being strapped to my bed. Attacked in the kitchen. Flung about the drawing room. Mr. Banks listened to every word. He said nothing for a moment or two. And then . . . “This woman, the one who stayed in the shadows, did she speak at all?”

“Only once,” I said, rather disappointed that of all the questions he might have asked me, that was the one he chose. “She said, ‘Remarkable.’”

“What do you think she meant?”

I shrugged. “Perhaps she noticed my naturally silky hair.”

“Thieves in the night!” cried Mrs. Vans. “Roaming about looking for treasure!”

Mr. Banks huffed. “This was no random robbery, Mrs. Vans. They came for Miss Pocket as much as for the necklace.”

“Stuff and nonsense!” I said with a frown.

“Do not be foolish, Miss Pocket,” he said. “Why did the intruders seek to immobilize you in your bed, but not Mrs. Vans or myself?”

I hadn’t an answer for that.

Mr. Banks continued, “I believe they intended to find the Clock Diamond, then come back and take you.”

“But why?” I said. “For what purpose?”

Now it was Mr. Banks who had no answer. He looked about at the wreckage. “All I know is this—you are in grave danger.”

I shook my head. “Fear not, Mr. Banks. I’m terribly good in a fight. Stupendously brave. But your concern is understandable—as I possess all the delicate beauty of a princess in a tower.”

Mrs. Vans snorted. “You, a princess.”

“You’re not the first to notice, dear.” I smiled regally at the bloated dingbat. “My mother is from a noble family. Tragically noble. Enchanted castles, wicked stepsisters, poisoned apples, and whatnot.”

“Enough of this foolishness, Miss Pocket,” said Mr. Banks gruffly. “The necklace, is it safe?”

“I think so.”

His voice softened. “It might be an idea if you checked.”

“I will.” It was curious he never asked me where the diamond was hidden.

Mrs. Vans went out into the hall and began berating the night constable. Mr. Banks followed her, trying his best to calm her down. He urged me to go back to bed. I did. But not before visiting the music room and making sure that the Clock Diamond was still there. It was.

They searched the house. The police and Mr. Banks. Looked everywhere. It was no great shock to find a window broken in Mrs. Vans’s bedroom. Clearly that had been the thieves’ point of entry.

By lunchtime the next day, a letter had arrived from Lady Amelia Butterfield. I read it with interest, Mr. Banks looking on.

“Well?” he said at last.

“It’s as I expected,” I said, folding the note. “Lady Amelia was delighted to hear from me. I’m invited to bring the necklace down to Butterfield Park on this afternoon’s train. She claims not to remember me from her visit to Midwinter Hall—which I put down to a slight case of stupidity—but she says I am very welcome. So you see, Mr. Banks, our business is nearly at an end.”

The grumpy lawyer didn’t look at all happy. “I think you should wait before making the journey to Butterfield Park—see if the police have any luck locating the thieves. Then we can decide what to do next.”

“Wait for what?” I demanded.

“Miss Pocket, I am worried about you.” He looked at me with something like tenderness. “I had a sister, once upon a time. She was a force of nature, rather like you, I suppose. I was very fond of her and . . . well, you remind me of her.” He cleared his throat. “We must keep you safe, Miss Pocket, that is all there is to it.”

This caught me off guard. Just a little. While people loved me as a general rule, I haven’t much experience of them worrying about me. That’s the sort of thing a parent might do. Or so I am told.

I smiled brightly. “I have a job to do, Mr. Banks, and I intend to do it. I shall catch the train to Suffolk at four o’clock.”

“Then I am coming with you,” he said quickly. “You can’t do this on your own. It’s too dangerous.”

“I won’t be on my own,” I said, feeling rather pleased with myself. “Lady Amelia writes that her niece Rebecca is in London and will be traveling down on the same train. We will make the journey together.”

Mr. Banks had no answer to this. But he had a stipulation.

“I will take you to the station and see you safely on board.”

I sniffed. “As you wish. Silly man.”

Mrs. Vans had packed me a hamper for the train, but I confess I ate most of it on the carriage ride to the station. Mr. Banks barked at me the whole way there—giving me a list of do’s and don’ts that stretched on for days. I nodded in most of the right places.

While Mr. Banks was seeing to my ticket, I busied myself at the newsstand, selecting a penny dreadful or two for the journey ahead. Imagine my surprise when I ran into Miss Always—who was due to catch a train to her mother’s village in the north. The pitiful creature explained that she had been delayed in London overnight due to the monstrous demands of her publisher. The brute loathed her new manuscript—said it had all the excitement of watching tomatoes grow—and was demanding a great many changes. But dear Miss Always was far more troubled by the events of last night in Belgravia.

“When I read of the break-in in the newspaper, and I saw that it was the very house where you were staying . . .” Miss Always was overcome with the sort of emotion only a terrified spinster can summon. “I was filled with horror! Ivy, are you all right? Are you hurt?”

“Monstrously hurt, dear,” I said bravely. “The whole ordeal was thrillingly dangerous. I came close to death on at least two occasions. Flung about. Burned to a crisp. I won’t go into detail about how greatly I suffered—it’s plain bad manners—but rest assured, it would make even a hardened pirate shudder in agony.”

“You poor girl!” cried Miss Always, pushing her spectacles up her nose. “I trust the police have caught the villains who harmed you?”

I shook my head. “Still at large, dear. Probably planning their next attack.”

Miss Always gasped. “Heavens!”

Which seemed like the perfect moment for me to mention the startling similarities between my pint-sized attackers and the hooded stranger I had seen talking to Miss Always on the ship. “It was uncanny,” I said as I paid a shilling for two novels.

“How peculiar,” said Miss Always. She looked terribly grave. “Goodness, Ivy, you cannot suspect my acquaintance from the boat? Walter was reunited with his father and is now in Bristol for a family reunion—so you see, it simply couldn’t be him.”

Which made perfect sense. Not that I ever suspected him. Well, not really. It was just that, well, how many hooded dwarfs does one usually come across in two days?

“Of course if you have any doubts, then you must report poor Walter to the authorities,” said Miss Always, watching me carefully. “Unless . . . unless you already have?”

I assured her I had not. Which seemed to please her. What a kind soul she was!

“I’m dreadfully worried for you, Ivy,” she said, linking her arm in mine as we began to walk. Her voice dropped to a whisper. “Traveling with the Clock Diamond and keeping it safe until Matilda Butterfield’s birthday ball is a grave responsibility for a young girl. I wish . . . I wish I could come with you to Suffolk—so you wouldn’t be all alone.” Miss Always was suddenly bug-eyed. “Oh, Ivy, I’ve just had the most wonderful idea! What if I change my ticket and come with you to Butterfield Park? Wouldn’t that be thrilling?”

“How can you, dear?” I said, rather startled. “Your mother being at death’s door and whatnot.”

Miss Always looked slightly vexed. But it quickly passed. “Yes, of course. Poor Mummy.”

I saw Mr. Banks coming towards us from across the platform. I pointed him out to Miss Always—keen to make an introduction. Unfortunately, it was at that exact moment that Miss Always realized she was going to miss her train if she didn’t hurry away. Which she did. At great speed.

Mr. Banks was terrifically interested in my friend. Asked a dozen questions. Looked about, this way and that. Then he walked me to my carriage (I had a first-class ticket, as you would expect) and waited on the platform until the train had left the station. He looked as if he expected an attack at any moment, poor man. I waved, but he didn’t wave back.

I was glad to be leaving London and all its calamities behind. I had the Clock Diamond sewn into the pocket of my dress and my carpetbag at my feet. I looked breathtaking. Just like a banker’s daughter. Or at very least a cheese-maker’s niece.

I met Rebecca Butterfield on the train. Dear Mr. Banks arranged for me to have the seat next to hers (in first class!). Rebecca was thirteen and pretty, in a plain sort of way—though her freckles were deeply unfortunate. She had wavy blond hair worn loose around her shoulders, dull brown eyes, and unremarkable lips. She seemed rather glum—which caused her to stoop, giving her the posture of a washerwoman. A small box wrapped in brown paper and tied with string sat on her lap. She seemed rather fixated by it.

“Is this your first visit to Suffolk?” she asked not long into our journey.

“Well . . .” I looked out the window, then back at Rebecca. “I was recently in Paris. You see, I travel the world a great deal. I’ve been so many places, it’s hard to keep track.”

“How lucky you are, Ivy.” She looked positively dazzled. “I would love to see the world and travel across exotic lands. To go far away.”

“Oh, yes, it’s terribly interesting.” I sighed. “Though sometimes I wish my life was slightly less thrilling, a little less astounding. It might be rather nice to be a perfectly ordinary, utterly unremarkable lump—like yourself, dear.”

Rebecca looked slightly stunned. Clearly she hadn’t expected a junior lady’s maid to have such fine manners!

“Do you live at Butterfield Park?” I asked.

She nodded her head gravely. “I have nowhere else to go.”

“You mustn’t look so glum,” I said. “I’ve only known you a short time, but already I can tell your skin gets awfully blotchy when you’re glum.”

She gasped. “What did you say?”

The poor creature was obviously hard of hearing.

“Blotchy, dear,” I said, this time louder. “When you think gloomy thoughts, which I imagine is terribly often, your cheeks flare up like you’ve been hit in the face with a cricket ball.”

Remarkably, this seemed to please the strange girl. For she grinned for the first time and said, “Where are you from, Ivy?” She shifted in her seat to face me, her hands clasped around the box in her lap. “Who are your parents?”

“My parents?” I retied the ribbon in my hair, which gave me a moment to think. “My father is Polish. A painter. Mainly fruit. Occasionally flowers. Poor, but hauntingly gifted. My mother is defective. Has an obsession with the pan flute. She ran away to join an orchestra in Berlin when I was eight. She sends money when she can and writes every week. Her letters are in German, so I have no idea what she’s saying—but I’m certain they’re full of longing and heartbreak.”

Rebecca Butterfield looked at me with a mixture of shock and envy. “But who takes care of you?”

“I do,” I said brightly. “I’ve been in service for a year and a half, and it suits me very well. And just between you and me, I’m soon to come into a small fortune—on account of the diamond necklace I’m delivering to your cousin, Matilda.”

“Oh.” Rebecca seemed to pale at the name. “Yes, of course. I suppose it is a gift for her birthday?”

I nodded. “A special, one-of-a-kind present from the Duchess of Trinity. The Duchess is dead—stabbed through the heart, poor dear—but it was her dying wish that Matilda should have the necklace.”

“Matilda has a great many jewels.” Rebecca was smiling but looked rather like she had swallowed a dung beetle. “Too many to count. Do you know why I was in London, Ivy?”

“I think so, dear. London has the finest madhouses in all of England.”

Rebecca shook her head. “I was in the city to be fitted for a new dress. Do I need a new dress? Do I want one? It doesn’t matter. Grandmother said I must have one for the birthday ball. No one will be looking at me, but everything must be perfect for Matilda.”

“Is she a horrid sort of girl?” I asked.

“Matilda is very pretty,” came the meek reply. And then she said no more.

A lengthy silence settled in, and I had nearly been lulled to sleep by the train’s gentle rhythm when Rebecca offered me a slice of cherry cake. Which I took gladly. I asked if she was traveling with any potatoes. Or perhaps a pumpkin. Unfortunately, she wasn’t.

“I’m the eldest,” she said between mouthfuls. “A full three hundred and seventy-six days older than Matilda.” She looked intently at me. “That’s nine thousand and twenty-four hours. You understand, Ivy?”

I had no clue. “Perfectly, dear.”

“Butterfield Park should go to me, being the eldest. But Grandmother says Matilda will be her heir.” Rebecca looked down at the parcel in her lap. “Mother wanted the estate to be mine—she loved it dearly, the gardens best of all. If she were here, she would never let Grandmother do such a thing.”

“Your mother is dead?”

Rebecca nodded her head. “Last year. Her heart.”

“I’m awfully sorry, dear.”

“Father has a new family in Italy,” she said faintly. “So it was just us—Mother and I.”

“Now that she is gone, is the rest of your family shockingly cruel?” I said rather hopefully. “Do they beat you and starve you and lock you in the cellar?”

She didn’t answer for a long while. Then she glanced out of the window and said, “They do not notice me most of the time. And when they do, it makes them uncomfortable. They think that I am strange.” She looked at me earnestly. “What do you think, Ivy?”

“You’re not the prettiest of girls,” I said with heartbreaking tact, “and you seem slightly odd—but I like you very much. Besides, you seem awfully tortured, which is terribly interesting.”

Rebecca was looking down again at the box she was clutching.

As such, I pointed to it. “What’s inside?”

The question seemed to stun her. She gulped. “Nothing. What I mean is—nothing special.”

“Why don’t you let me be the judge of that? Come now, dear, I am dying to know.”

Rebecca frowned. Looked slightly terrified. “Honestly, Ivy,” she said, “you would be very disappointed. It’s just a little something I picked up in London. It’s really very boring.”

I sighed. “I won’t stop asking. I will drive you batty.”

A great wave of defeat washed over her freckly face. She placed her hands around the package, holding it tenderly. “Very well, Ivy,” she said. “It is a present for Matilda’s birthday. Yes, that’s all it is, just a little present. Nothing more than a few ribbons for her hair and a sash. Matilda will think it terribly dull. So you see—it’s really not very interesting at all.”

I didn’t believe her for a moment.