‘Your reading was very moving, Ivy.’
‘Was it?’
Ezra nodded his head (complete with wobbly jowls) and ushered me to a seat by the shuttered window. ‘But perhaps you might ask your friend at the library for something more uplifting next time. Now you rest a spell while Mother Snagsby and I see to business.’
Mrs Rushmore’s liver was diseased. The doctor gave her a week. Perhaps two. She didn’t want to trouble her family with funeral arrangements and whatnot, so she had called on the Snagsbys. The poem had gone down very well. It was Scottish, I think – about death coming in the night when you least expect it and how we are all doomed in the end. Mrs Rushmore had wailed like a fire alarm.
I am ashamed to say I didn’t read with tremendous feeling. My thoughts were crowded with the events of last night. Rebecca. The dark deeds of Prospa House. And what of Mr Blackhorn? How did he get there? And how was it that those bullish guards seemed to recognise me? She’s awake. That’s what one of them had said. What on earth did any of it mean? Oh, it was a tangled web!
‘Here.’ Mother Snagsby was holding out a glass of warm milk.
‘I’m not thirsty.’
‘Of course you are,’ she replied firmly. ‘Mrs Rushmore has a great many questions and I haven’t time to argue.’
I took the milk. And offered something in return. ‘I’ve been wondering about Mr Blackhorn.’
‘What of him?’
‘Do you recall anything strange about his passing? Anything unusual or out of the ordinary?’
‘Such as?’
I knew I must be magnificently cagey to avoid arousing suspicion.
‘Well, who can say? Perhaps he made mention of a pressing engagement in a faraway place. Or perhaps he was slightly less dead than you thought?’ I gave Mother Snagsby my most understanding gaze. ‘Is that possible, dear? For yes, nod once. If no, continue to stare at me with withering antipathy.’
‘Mr Blackhorn’s funeral is this afternoon at two,’ she said calmly, ‘and I assure you, young lady, we do not bury the living at Snagsbys’ Economic Funerals.’ She pointed to the glass. ‘Drink it and button your lips.’
Mother Snagsby was soon hunched over Mrs Rushmore’s bed, whispering about what stain of casket she might prefer. Ezra was measuring the poor old woman for length. They were a harmless pair. Shrivelled as year-old raisins, but harmless.
I drank down the milk. A muddle of tangled thoughts stretched to the farthest reaches of my mind. And as I wrestled with them, something warm and utterly comforting crept over me. Like a hot-water bottle on a winter’s night. Or a generous hug. It reached up and gently pulled me down. It was too delicious to resist. So I didn’t.
When Ezra woke me up, the stone felt warm against my skin. Mrs Rushmore was now covered by a sheet. Mother Snagsby said it was a blessing. She had died suddenly and was at peace.
Miss Carnage had seen right through me.
‘You are not yourself, Ivy, there is no point denying it.’ She pulled up a chair and sat down beside me. ‘I insist you tell me what is troubling you. After all, if you cannot tell a bosom –’ She stopped abruptly. Blinked a great deal.
‘Bathroom trouble, dear?’
The librarian laughed rather enthusiastically. ‘Goodness no. As I was saying, if you cannot confide in a sympathetic friend, who can you confide in?’
I had left the house before Mr Blackhorn’s viewing began. Mother Snagsby was busy making sure everything was ready – flowers, organ music, sandwiches and tea afterwards – so I was able to slip away undetected. Not that I didn’t have a perfectly good excuse to visit the library. Ezra had requested that I seek out more uplifting poetry. But I couldn’t pretend that that was the real reason. I hadn’t been able to look at Mrs Blackhorn when she arrived dressed in black and sobbing madly. Even her tremendous wig, which was wonderfully crooked, did nothing to lift my spirits.
‘It’s terribly complicated,’ I heard myself tell Miss Carnage.
‘Has something happened, Ivy?’ Miss Carnage had her hand on my hand. She was squeezing it most sympathetically. ‘Have you had news of your friend?’
I nodded. ‘I was able to reach her.’
The librarian gasped. ‘You did?’
‘It all happened so quickly – I went back to Winslow Street, not sure why, but it just felt right and the next thing I knew, there I was. Finding her room wasn’t easy, there were so many shades of yellow, and then those guards recognised me and it all ended rather badly.’
‘They recognised you?’
‘I think so. Oh, I don’t know.’
Miss Carnage looked awfully perplexed but she soon snapped out of it. ‘You told me that your friend was somewhere far away – but Winslow Street is in London.’
‘That was just where I departed from.’
‘How are you back so soon?’ asked the curious librarian.
‘Could only stay thirty minutes,’ I said with a shrug. ‘It’s one of the rules – though I have my doubts about several of the others.’
‘One of the rules?’ Miss Carnage gasped again, only this time her hand flew to her shockingly large chin and she stared at me in dismay. ‘It was you who stole Ambrose Crabtree’s manuscript from the vault, was it not? Oh, Ivy, I am bitterly disappointed – you lied to me!’
‘Highly doubtful. I’m violently honest as a general rule.’
‘Even after I warned you not to …’ The flustered creature stood up. Sat back down again. ‘You must return it this instant and promise never to meddle with such things again.’
‘Return what, dear?’
‘The manuscript that was stolen.’
‘Stolen?’
Miss Carnage nodded vigorously. ‘Stolen by you!’
‘Stolen by you? Well, I’m sure you had your reasons, let’s say no more about it.’
I was practically positive the subject was closed. The librarian felt differently. She took me by the hand into the back office. Shut the door. Sat me down at her desk and said, ‘That book has great power and is not to be trifled with – if Ambrose Crabtree’s rules are not followed to the letter, they could lead to certain death.’
The nerve! ‘Miss Carnage, while I am perfectly innocent of any crime, I can say with some confidence that if I had stolen the manuscript, I would find the instructions terribly easy to follow.’
Miss Carnage pushed her spectacles up her bent nose. ‘I see.’
‘And as for those silly rules, I can only suspect Mr Crabtree was drunk on rum cake when he wrote them. Some are stupendously wrong – so I’ve heard.’
‘Go on,’ said Miss Carnage, leaning forward.
‘Number seven says that when a person crosses, only their soul takes the journey and they cannot be harmed. Well, I have it on good authority that a person can be thrown about and pulled by the hair in a most unpleasant manner.’
The librarian paled. ‘Heavens.’
‘I want so much to help her, but Rebecca said …’ My voice had dropped to a whisper and I found myself looking at Miss Carnage most earnestly. ‘She said I should never come back. That it would only make things worse for her. I must confess, dear, I am not entirely sure what I should do. I cannot leave her in that hideous place, but I couldn’t bear the thought that I was inflicting more suffering upon her by going back.’
‘You poor girl,’ said Miss Carnage with such tenderness. ‘We will not dwell on the manuscript’s whereabouts, but you are very right to heed your friend’s plea and stay away.’ She cleared her throat. ‘After all, you have done everything that can be asked of a chum. Who could blame you for giving up? I am sure Rebecca will understand.’
Despite the fact that soft-hearted Miss Carnage was trying to reassure me, it had quite the opposite effect. How could I think for one moment that it was better to leave Rebecca to her fate? It was unforgivable!
‘I’m sorry, Miss Carnage, but my friend needs me and I won’t give up on her.’
The librarian smiled faintly. ‘How brave you are, Ivy.’
The Dumblebys’ house was splendid.
Estelle greeted me at the door as if we were old friends, then ushered me upstairs to meet her great-uncle. The old man rarely left his private chambers and was terribly frail.
‘I am so pleased you were able to come,’ said Estelle, as we climbed the majestic staircase with its cast iron banister. ‘I was worried you would not be able to get away.’
‘There is a viewing today,’ I explained helpfully. ‘Then Mother Snagsby is to meet with a grieving widow who wants her husband stuffed and mounted on the wall. So I am quite free.’
‘That is excellent news,’ said Estelle with a warm smile. ‘I am sorry our friendship has to be such a secret, but if there was any other way …’
‘Think nothing of it, dear. I’m gifted at skullduggery.’
Baron Dumbleby was a marvellous creature. Short arms. Legs like mushroom stalks. Face like a pickled artichoke. His tongue darted in and out with tremendous frequency. Which was a treat. And he was rather bent over. As I was well used to conversing with aristocrats, I greeted him warmly, then remarked that he looked rather like a footrest.
His butler glared at me as if I had said something improper.
But the Baron chuckled softly. ‘I have never been what you might call towering and these days my back has a mind of its own.’
‘I do hope you like cake, Ivy,’ said Estelle, as the tea trolley was wheeled in by a maid they called Bertha. ‘We have strawberry cream and vanilla sponge.’
‘I will have a slice of both and don’t be shy on the portions – I’m utterly famished.’
While Estelle busied herself at the trolley, I helped Baron Dumbleby take a seat by the fire, putting a pillow at his back in a devastating display of good will. The poor creature grimaced as he sat down.
‘Does your back hurt terribly?’ I asked.
‘I’m afraid so,’ said the Baron softly.
‘I have an excellent remedy. All I require is a cup of lard, a length of string, two wooden spoons and a trapdoor.’
The Baron laughed playfully. Can’t imagine what about.
I noticed the minute portrait of a rather handsome young man on the side table. He had brown hair, intelligent eyes and a shy smile. And he bore a striking resemblance to Estelle.
With the tea was laid out, and the maid and butler departed, we engaged in pleasant small talk until the Baron asked Estelle to fetch his glasses from the dressing room.
‘Of course, Uncle,’ said the pretty girl.
When she was gone, the Baron turned to me and said, ‘I am so very glad Estelle has made a new friend. She doesn’t spend enough time with girls around her own age. My great-niece carries such sadness around that it breaks an old man’s heart. Her mother’s passing was a great shock and, of course, Sebastian …’
‘Oh yes, I know just how she feels. I recently lost a dear friend, though I am trying my very hardest to bring her back again. But as for Sebastian, I wouldn’t worry about him.’
‘Do you know something of my nephew?’
‘Only that he was a rather sickly fellow, who fell head over heels for his nurse.’ I took a large bite of strawberry cream cake.
‘I suppose Estelle told you the sorry tale,’ said Baron Dumbleby, picking up the miniature portrait. ‘Was he not a fine-looking fellow?’
‘Monstrously fetching.’
‘Sebastian was a shy young man, kept mostly to himself – but this girl seemed to bring him alive. They formed rather a close bond.’
‘That would never have lasted.’ Estelle had returned with her uncle’s spectacles. She dropped them in the old man’s lap rather abruptly. ‘Before she came along, my brother was devoted to us. He was to take over the Dumbleby coalmines and see that we prospered as we had when my father was alive. But he lost all interest in such things when he met that girl.’
While I was absolutely certain that the mystery girl who had captured Sebastian’s heart was Gretel Snagsby, I decided to do a little digging before I revealed my shocking discovery.
‘What did she look like?’ I asked casually.
‘Dark hair and common features,’ said Estelle, sitting down on the plump couch next to me and hugging a silk cushion. ‘Her eyes were large and blue and I’m certain she used them to mesmerise my brother, though I cannot imagine what he saw in her.’
Gretel had dark hair and her eyes were blue – though I cannot say they looked especially large or mesmerising in Mother Snagsby’s many portraits. But it must be her!
‘Hold on to your bloomers, dears,’ I declared, shovelling the last bite of cake into my gullet, ‘for I am about to solve the mystery of Sebastian and his one true love.’
Estelle gasped. Practically lunged at me. ‘You know what happened to my brother?’
‘Not at all,’ I said brightly. ‘But I can reveal the identity of the young lady who won his heart.’
Baron Dumbleby looked rather startled.
‘You can?’ said Estelle.
‘Why do you look so uneasy, dear?’ I asked. ‘Does the news not please you?’
‘I am just disappointed, as we already know about Anastasia Radcliff.’
I was frowning. ‘Who is Anastasia Radcliff?’
‘The very girl we have just been talking about,’ came Estelle’s impatient reply.
Which was most unexpected!
‘My mother had advertised for a nurse and Anastasia was the first to apply, spinning a tale about how she was new to London and had no family connections. My mother was a kind-hearted soul and she took pity on the girl.’
‘Anastasia had such a sweet nature, it was impossible not to be charmed by her,’ added Baron Dumbleby.
This made Estelle stare daggers at her old uncle.
‘Her references were good and Mother had no reason to suspect her.’ Then Estelle turned her narrowed eyes upon me. ‘She came highly recommended by a close friend of our former housekeeper – a most trustworthy woman who was working as a cook for your parents.’
‘Oh?’ I said.
‘Mrs Gloria Dickens,’ said Estelle. ‘You know her, I suppose?’
‘Never heard of her, dear. The current cook is a short man from the Congo with eleven fingers and an enormous spice rack.’
‘Really?’ Estelle’s smile wasn’t especially pleasant. ‘I have it on good authority that Mrs Dickens still works for the Snagsbys.’
‘Who can say?’ I slapped the girl on the knee. ‘One cook is much the same as the next, don’t you think?’
‘Anastasia claimed she was a lodger at your house, though your parents denied ever having met her – which is why I am certain they know the real story.’ Estelle picked up her teacup and sipped it delicately. ‘My mother spied the girl slipping love notes to my brother, though the proof was never found. Miss Radcliff was dismissed that very afternoon and my brother disappeared three days later. As far as we can tell, no one has seen them since.’
‘Surely she and your brother ran away together?’ I said with certainty.
Estelle shook her head, and tears began to pool in her eyes. ‘Sebastian would never do such a thing. My mother ordered him to break it off and he said that he would.’
‘Then what do you suppose happened?’
‘It’s really very simple,’ whispered Estelle. ‘Anastasia Radcliff murdered him.’
Mrs Dickens was attacking the drawing room rug with great enthusiasm when I entered the back garden.
I picked up a paddle from the chair and joined her by the almond tree. The housekeeper stopped beating the carpet for a moment and wiped her damp brow. ‘Where have you been, lass?’
‘Here and there,’ I said. ‘Let me help.’
I drew back my arm and began thrashing the carpet as if it were a wayward son who had just lost the family estate, and quite possibly his pants, in a rather thrilling game of checkers. Between poundings, I broached the subject that was uppermost in my mind.
‘What do you know of a girl called Anastasia Radcliff?’
Mrs Dickens responded with a coughing fit. Then she said, ‘Who’s that then?’
‘You tell me, dear.’ I gave the carpet another whack or two. ‘After all, you recommended her for a job as a nurse to Sebastian Dumbleby.’
‘Did I now?’ She chuckled but I wasn’t convinced. ‘Well, as you pointed out, my mind’s not what it used to be.’
‘Stuff and nonsense. I also believe Anastasia was a lodger in this house until she and Sebastian mysteriously disappeared.’
‘What a story!’ But I could see the flicker of panic dancing in the housekeeper’s eyes. ‘Who’s been filling your head with such things?’
‘Sebastian’s sister. She’s convinced that Anastasia Radcliff was a most wicked sort of girl. A girl who killed the man she was supposed to love and then ran away, never to be seen again.’
‘That girl wouldn’t harm a fly!’ declared Mrs Dickens with great force. ‘She loved Sebastian more than her own life and he felt the same way.’
I wanted to kiss the chunky fool. How easily I had outwitted her. ‘I thought you had never heard of Anastasia Radcliff?’
Mrs Dickens looked crestfallen. ‘It was a long time ago,’ she said, wiping her brow again and taking a seat. ‘What you are asking goes awful deep and way back. Some things are beyond understanding … I don’t reckon I understand them myself.’
‘Perhaps I should speak to Mother Snagsby about it,’ I said next.
The housekeeper leapt up. ‘You mustn’t.’
‘Why? Why mustn’t I?’ Something urgent, a deep kind of unease, had stirred inside me. I couldn’t explain it, as this little drama had nothing to do with me, but it was there. ‘Who was Anastasia Radcliff, Mrs Dickens? And why are you so terrified to talk about her?’
‘Perhaps I can enlighten you,’ came a voice from behind us.
‘Lord have mercy,’ muttered Mrs Dickens.
Mother Snagsby was standing by the back gate, a stone’s throw from the almond tree. She had her eyes trained on me. They were cold but calm.
‘It seems you are searching for answers – I believe I can be of assistance.’ She swept past us and headed towards the house. ‘Please join me in my office.’