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.
‘Your new dress will be black – black, plain and sombre,’ declared Mother Snagsby. ‘We have several important appointments in the coming weeks and the blue dress simply will not do.’
I had a sudden urge to push Mother Snagsby from the carriage. Or at the very least, grab her lumpy nose and twist it viciously. Instead, I said, ‘Very well.’
My mind flew to Estelle Dumbleby and her mysterious and sorrowful request. Sneaking about and going through the Snagsbys’ papers and records seemed like a great deal of effort. Estelle’s story was perfectly tragic – dead mother, missing brother – but a girl only has so many hours in the day. And I had my hands full with the horrid business of Rebecca.
Besides, I was frightfully crafty in the art of digging.
‘Lady Dumbleby is dead,’ I said casually. ‘The whole city is talking about it.’
‘Who?’ said Mother Snagsby.
‘Lady Dumbleby,’ I said again. ‘She was from a tremendously important family. I seem to recall reading that there was an older brother. I believe his name was Sebastian. Apparently, he vanished in most mysterious circumstance many years ago.’
‘I don’t listen to gossip,’ came the sharp rebuke, ‘and neither should you.’
Things were going wonderfully!
‘You know, dear, if you have any secrets of the deep and unpleasant variety, you can share them with me, your loving daughter. For example, if you happened to have met a young man once or twice, who just happened to have vanished into thin air – and who hasn’t? – well, now would be the perfect time to spill your guts.’
‘Who have you been speaking with?’ Her voice hissed and the lines around her eyes scrunched into a tight map of valleys and peaks. ‘Listen to me very carefully, young lady – I do not know what became of Sebastian Dumbleby nor do I care. I will not speak of this matter again, is that perfectly understood?’
‘Don’t pop a cork, dear, I was merely trying to pass the time.’
Mother Snagsby took a deep breath. Parted the curtain again to look briefly at the streets rushing by. As she released the air from her lungs, the anger seemed to lift from her stern and rugged face.
‘When we return from the dressmaker,’ she said evenly, ‘you can accompany Mrs Dickens to the market. You eat such unreasonable quantities of potatoes and pumpkins, the poor woman cannot carry them all home by herself.’
Which was the ideal moment to talk of something far less controversial. ‘Mrs Dickens mentioned that you carry around a recipe book – which is wonderfully bonkers – perhaps you might make something for our dessert tonight?’
‘Mrs Dickens should hold her tongue.’
Oh dear. Had I stumbled upon another forbidden subject?
‘I adore family recipes,’ I said brightly. ‘The Pockets had a great many, passed down from one generation to the next. Most were lost following the tragic alligator pie incident of 1842 – Uncle Mortimer did not realise that the beast had to be dead before wrapping it in pastry. We lost seven Pockets that day.’
‘Do you ever talk sense?’ snapped Mother Snagsby.
‘Only in extreme emergencies, dear. Did it belong to your mother – the recipe book, I mean? Might I have a look at it?’
‘I sent a note to Mrs Roach yesterday afternoon,’ said Mother Snagsby, choosing to ignore my question, ‘and her reply came by the morning post. She and her daughters have accepted our invitation and they will come next Tuesday at three.’
I may have whooped with delight. But not for long. I could see the hint of something sad and troubled at play on Mother Snagsby’s unsightly face. There was a story behind her book of recipes, I was sure of that. One that might explain a great deal about her sour nature.
And it gave me a rather glorious idea.
Our visit to the dressmaker did not get off to the greatest of starts. The dressmaker, Miss Upton, had a shocking pallor, dull eyes and rasping breath. Naturally, I assumed she was dead. Urged her to float away and head towards the light.
‘What on earth are you talking about?’ snapped Mother Snagsby.
She knew nothing of my ability to see ghosts. ‘I do not want to alarm you, dear,’ I said, pointing at Miss Upton, ‘for you cannot see the hideous apparition before me. Skin like a corpse. The stench of death about her. I would say more, but I’m much too refined – having all the natural instincts of a young Snow White.’
The dressmaker took offence. Said I was unspeakably rude.
‘She’s an orphan,’ explained Mother Snagsby, as I was told to step up on to a stool and keep utterly still, ‘entirely unwanted and without blood relatives. Mr Snagsby and I took pity on the child as she had nowhere else to go.’
Miss Upton threw a sheet of black fabric over me. Fortunately there was a hole cut in the top for my head, so I was able to look through the shop window on to the busy street.
‘You are a good woman,’ said the dressmaker, as she began sticking pins all around me, ‘to let a stray child into your home and treat her as your own.’
‘Indeed,’ said Mother Snagsby gravely, ‘we must all do our part, as the girl would be in the poorhouse if not for us.’
‘You’re wrong there, dear,’ I said. ‘I would be very welcome in the village where my mother is from. They think the world of us Pockets. Every winter one of the local women carves a statue of the entire family from frozen pig fat. It’s erected in the village square, right next to the one of Napoleon.’
Miss Upton and Mother Snagsby were gawking at me.
‘Foolish girl!’ fumed Mother Snagsby.
‘Excellent point, dear.’ Then I looked at my watch. Shook my head. ‘Come, Miss Upton, do hurry along, my legs are starting to –’
But I never finished the sentence. For I had glanced out of the window. And as I did, a slim woman dressed in a grey coat passed by. Brown hair. Spectacles. Head high. A brisk, purposeful stride. She appeared to be in a great hurry.
‘Where are you going?’ bellowed Mother Snagsby, when I tore off the black fabric and leapt from the stool. ‘Come back here this instant, young lady!’
I charged across the shop, threw open the door and bounded out on to the footpath.
‘She’s lost her mind!’ declared Miss Upton.
Their frightful squawks quickly faded. I was already storming down the street, weaving between the passersby. I had Miss Always in my sights and this time I would not let her get away.