The Crooked Sixpence

by Jennifer Bell

  Violet sniffed. She looked woozy and disorientated. ‘I thought I was a goner, Ethel, honestly. I’d forgotten to put on my specs and stumbled into the wrong room upstairs.’ She poked around in her pocket. ‘It’s all right – I’ve taken a button for the shock.’

  Ethel rubbed her shoulder encouragingly. ‘Derek,’ she called. ‘Best brew up some fresh Raider’s Tonic for Violet’s injuries.’

  Mr Littlefair nodded. ‘Right-o!’ he said, and started pulling jars out of cupboards, mixing something on the worktop.

  Smokehart cleared his throat. ‘Ms Dread.’ His voice sliced through the air. ‘As you can see, I am in the middle of an investigation.’

  Ethel grumbled but stepped back.

  ‘Now, Violet,’ Smokehart began. ‘You said that the room you found the creature in was the one next door to your own?’ He turned to the innkeeper. ‘Who is staying there at the moment, Mr Littlefair?’

  Mr Littlefair gulped. ‘Just some other paying guests.’

  ‘Indeed.’ Smokehart lowered his feather. ‘But their names?’

  The innkeeper wiped a hand down his apron and looked at Ivy and Seb guiltily. ‘Well, er . . . Ivy and Sebastian Sparrow.’

  Smokehart’s shoulders stiffened. ‘Sparrow?’ He quickly spun round to find Ivy and Seb standing behind him.

  Ivy shuddered. There was nowhere to go. She winced as he shouted.

  ‘YOU!’ The feather in his hand shook. ‘Grandchildren of Sylvie Wrench. I might have known it.’ He threw the feather over his shoulder, where it disappeared into thin air, and marched towards them.

  Ethel reacted fast. ‘Now wait just a moment.’ She jumped into his path, arms spread wide. ‘Just because the creature was in their room, it doesn’t mean—’

  ‘Ms Dread.’ Smokehart smiled at her and pressed his fingers together. ‘Do you know what it was that attacked Ms Eyelet?’

  Ethel pinched her lips together, falling silent.

  ‘I thought not. It was a wraithmoth.’ He let the name hang in the air for a few seconds. Violet squeaked and brought her handkerchief to her mouth. Mr Littlefair stepped back against a cupboard, fanning his flushed cheeks.

  ‘Wraithmoths are one of the few races of the dead who haven’t been seen since the Fallen Guild were in power,’ Smokehart reminded them. ‘And who, I wonder, is the only person ever to be convicted as a member of the Fallen Guild?’

  Every face in the room turned towards Ivy and Seb. Ivy could feel their eyes boring into her.

  ‘Octavius Wrench is the name you’re all searching for.’ Smokehart moved Ethel aside and continued towards Ivy.

  ‘Do you know what finally happened to your great-grandfather?’ he asked her.

  Ivy glanced anxiously at Seb as he reached for her arm. Everyone must already know the truth about Octavius. She wished someone had had the courage to tell them before.

  ‘No? Then let me enlighten you . . . After Octavius Wrench lost the election on Twelfth Night 1969, an army of the dead took to the streets of Lundinor, led by six masked figures with rotten hands and black hoods. We all knew who they were.’

  The Dirge, Ivy thought. And Octavius was among them.

  ‘I was only a constable at the time, but the entire underguard force – myself included – stood against them. We were completely outnumbered: many good people lost their lives. At the last minute, back-up arrived from other underguard forces around the world. The increase in emergency bag-travel even sparked a geothermal disturbance, creating a temporary snowstorm over London. Only then did the tide start to change.’

  Ivy wondered about Granma Sylvie’s accident that night, in the snow. She must have fled Lundinor during the battle.

  ‘Five of the hooded figures escaped,’ Smokehart recalled, ‘but one fought till the bitter end. When this sixth one realized he wasn’t going to win, he ran into a shower of uncommon bolts and was killed. He was unmasked right there in the street, for everyone to see. Nobody could believe who it really was: Octavius Wrench, one of the pillars of the uncommon community.’

  Ivy’s mouth was dry. She didn’t know how she was meant to feel about Octavius Wrench. Surely you weren’t automatically bad just because someone in your family was.

  Smokehart jabbed a finger at Violet Eyelet. ‘Back then, the Fallen Guild used wraithmoths as spies because they lived in the shadows and you never even noticed they were there till it was too late. Maybe you’d feel a chill, or as if someone was watching you.’

  Ivy remembered having that exact feeling that morning, in her room. The wraithmoth must have been there. The Dirge had sent it to spy on her, no doubt.

  She straightened as Smokehart lowered his finger. He had it all wrong. She had to convince him that she and Seb were innocent and the real bad guys were still out there. ‘Whatever you think about the Wrenches,’ she said in a quiet voice, ‘Seb and I haven’t done anything wrong.’

  ‘That’s right,’ Seb agreed. ‘We didn’t have anything to do with this. Why would we want to hurt Violet?’

  Smokehart glared at them. ‘That’s something I will no doubt discover during your interrogation, but the facts are clear: a wraithmoth was hiding in your room, and your great-grandfather was a member of the Fallen Guild.’ He lowered his head till he could look Ivy straight in the eye. ‘And on top of that, every instinct I have is telling me that you’re up to something in Lundinor.’

  Ivy looked around the room for support. Mr Little-fair shrugged. Violet was sobbing again. Valian . . .

  Hang on . . . Where was Valian? Ivy looked behind her. The door was open. Great. He’d disappeared again. She wondered if he was going to explain himself this time . . .

  Only Ethel stepped forward. ‘Officer, I don’t think—’

  She was cut off by the sound of panting and scuttling little footsteps on the tiles behind them. Ivy turned to see a tall, dark-haired lady in a long silk dress approaching from the lounge. There was a sand-coloured dog sniffing around by her ankles. Ivy had seen them both before.

  ‘Lady Grimes?’ Smokehart exclaimed. ‘What—?’

  ‘No need to be alarmed, Officer,’ Selena Grimes insisted, raising a dainty hand. ‘I was just passing and wanted to see why the crowd had gathered outside. I heard them talking about a wraithmoth?’

  Smokehart straightened the front of his uniform. ‘Yes,’ he said gravely. ‘I’m afraid there is evidence of a wraithmoth attack.’ He slipped a paperclip out of his pocket and gestured towards Ivy and Seb. ‘The creature was found in their room. They’re the Wrench grandchildren I was telling you about.’

  Selena Grimes brushed her long fishtail plait over her shoulder and looked from Seb to Ivy. ‘I see.’ She sounded disappointed. ‘It seems I should have allowed you the freedom to question these two back then, Smokehart.’ She tilted her head slightly. ‘I apologize.’

  Ethel’s jaw dropped. As she started to protest, Ivy felt the cold, prickly arms of inevitability wrap around her.

  Smokehart tossed his paperclip at Ivy; it jumped onto one of her hands. Her whispering kicked in as her wrists were pulled together by some invisible force and the paperclip fastened itself around them. When she tried to pull them apart, it felt like they’d been glued to each other.

  ‘You are both under arrest for hiring a wraithmoth,’ Smokehart growled, throwing a second paperclip at Seb’s hands. ‘I’ll read you your rights at the station.’

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Ivy winced as her head scraped under the doorframe of the underguard coach, Smokehart’s bony fingers pressing into her shoulder. Once inside, she shuffled along the seat with her back to the glass and her paper-clipped hands resting on her knees.

  Opposite her was another prisoner – a slim, bony man with skin the colour of coffee beans and a short fuzz of black hair on his chin. His Hobsmatch consisted of jeans and a fur-trimmed tabard embroidered with gold flowers. When Ivy caught his eye, he smiled wearily at her. There was an absent look in his turquoise gaze that made her think he wasn’t entirely
awake.

  The coach rocked as Seb was bundled in beside her. She tried to ignore the crowd outside, but it was difficult. Murmurs of ‘Fallen Guild’ and ‘Wrench’ kept breaking into hysterical cries or angry shouts. Through the windows, Ivy picked out a few of the faces. They were seething with anger. A woman carrying a basketful of baby’s dummies reached into the pile and grabbed one. There was a look of blind rage in her eyes.

  ‘Seb . . .’ Ivy began. ‘I think that lady—’

  Thud! The dummy hit the window and then . . .

  Squelch! A horrible yellow mucus sprayed out. The dummy wobbled like jelly as the sound of a loud, rippling burp! reverberated through the carriage.

  Seb growled and thumped his paperclipped hands hard against the glass. Several other uncommoners grabbed dummies from the woman’s basket and started lobbing them at the coach. A wet chorus of belches sounded in Ivy’s ears. She realized she’d seen that disgusting gloop before – those boys had been throwing uncommon dummies at the featherlight mailhouse yesterday.

  Smokehart didn’t seem annoyed or surprised by the crowd’s reaction; in fact, he looked like he was enjoying it.

  ‘What did we ever do to any of them?’ Seb asked, grimacing as another dummy hit the glass. ‘It was a mistake to think anyone down here would help us. None of them even tried to prevent our arrest.’

  Ivy flinched as she heard another burp. She didn’t think what Seb said was entirely fair – Ethel had made an attempt.

  He bent his head. ‘It sucks being related to a member of the Dirge. It’s not like we can do anything to change it.’

  Ivy nodded. ‘I know.’ She felt like they had to go around proving that they were nothing like Octavius Wrench, just so people wouldn’t hate them. She’d never had to deal with anything like that before. Up to this point in her life, everyone had judged her on who she was, not who she was related to.

  She rocked sideways as the coach set off. They were moving at a brisk trot, the hoofbeats as steady as a sewing machine. The crowd chased them for a while but Ivy was too involved in her own thoughts to notice them. In ten minutes or so she and Seb would be in the underguard station. Her spirits plunged as she saw herself locked up in one of those cells. There would be no chance to save her mum and dad then.

  As they drove through the streets, Ivy’s mind kept wandering back to the series of events that had led to this moment. There had been three dead attacks in succession now – first the grim-wolf, then the selkie, then the wraithmoth. She remembered the newspaper article’s reference to the dead uprising. The Dirge must be getting impatient. She wondered what they were planning to do with the Great Uncommon Good object once they got hold of it.

  ‘Mum and Dad have only got till midnight tonight,’ she said, her voice cracking.

  ‘As if I need reminding!’ Seb glanced over at the man in the corner and whispered, ‘Do you think we can talk in front of him?’

  Ivy shrugged. She saw that the man was staring blankly out of the window. ‘We need to escape,’ she said in a hushed voice. ‘Leave Lundinor and go back to Bletchy Scrubb. We have to find this Great Uncommon Good object before the Dirge do. Maybe if we tell Granma, she’ll have remembered something . . .’

  Seb clenched his paperclipped hands. ‘Good plan – but how do we get out of these? I’ve still got my drumsticks up my sleeve – but if I use them, I think Smokehart will hear.’

  Scratch might have some ideas, Ivy thought, but before she could speak, the quiet man opposite started gesturing to his mouth with his paperclipped hands and then shaking his head.

  ‘Uh . . .’ Seb frowned in puzzlement.

  Ivy tried to work out what the man was telling them. ‘You . . . can’t speak?’ she guessed.

  The stranger nodded. Ivy shuffled closer as he turned round to show her the back pocket of his jeans. Sticking out of it she saw a grey eraser – the kind she had in her pencil case at school. He tried to stretch for it with his paperclipped hands but he couldn’t reach.

  Ivy could. As soon as she pulled the eraser out of his pocket, she could feel that it was uncommon. ‘What does it do?’ she asked.

  The man held up his wrists. Ivy glanced at the silver paperclip thread binding them.

  She turned to Seb. ‘Hold your hands up; I’m gonna try something.’

  She rubbed the eraser over the thread of silver metal wrapped around his hands. The metal flaked away in seconds, leaving behind a little pile of silver filings. He pulled his hands apart. ‘Give it here – I’ll do yours.’

  Once Ivy’s paperclip was off, she rubbed out the stranger’s restraints. He beamed at her before checking through the glass at the top of the coach. Smokehart and the driver were facing forward, unaware of what was going on.

  The man signalled to a point in the middle of the floor. Ivy and Seb wriggled away as he rubbed his eraser across it, turning first the carpet, then the glue and wood, into dust. When he had finished, a circular piece of the floor dropped down onto the cobbles below.

  Seb raised his eyebrows. ‘Er – thanks.’

  The man offered them both a farewell salute before dropping through the hole and rolling to the side of the road. Ivy stared nervously down at the cobbles as the coach moved away from him. ‘You go first,’ she told Seb.

  He slid his legs through and fell onto the road with a thud. Ivy saw him getting to his feet and waving back at her.

  She took one last look at Smokehart, considering how fortunate she and Seb had been to find a stranger who could help them escape. Maybe it was a bit too convenient . . . or maybe their luck was finally beginning to change.

  Dropping through the hole, she stayed low as the coach passed overhead. When it was clear, she got to her feet, ignoring a twinge in her ankle, and dashed over to join Seb. He was standing on the corner of a road packed with little haberdashery stalls.

  ‘Seb – you all right?’

  He nodded. ‘You’re limping. Everything OK?’

  Ivy rubbed her ankle. ‘It’s nothing. Let’s get out of here.’ She looked around, trying to get her bearings. ‘Do you know where we are?’

  Seb gazed along the street. All the shops appeared to sell one thing: fabric. It was displayed draped over mannequins in the windows and huge rolls were stacked on the pavements outside. Sheets of satin and bolts of silk were being inspected by curious passers-by, while hand-stitched bunting waved enthusiastically from the gables above. Ivy couldn’t tell what their uncommon ability was – until she spotted a tapestry displayed in one of the windows. It depicted a storm at sea, with ships riding the waves and the sky full of clouds. As she watched, the tapestry appeared to ripple, the sky swirled and one of the great galleons crashed through the water, as if the picture had come alive.

  She shook her head, trying to refocus. ‘We need to move,’ she said, forcing her eyes away. ‘Smokehart will realize we’re missing soon.’

  Seb took a step forward but then rocked back on his heels. ‘Wait a sec. Ivy, can you see . . . ?’ His eyes widened as he stared down the street.

  Ivy followed his gaze . . . Through the rippling lengths of cloth she caught glimpses of a man with neatly combed salt-and-pepper hair standing on the pavement. He was wearing a button-down shirt and brown flannel trousers.

  Ivy frowned. ‘Dad?’

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  ‘What is Dad doing here?’ Ivy rubbed her eyes, making sure she wasn’t seeing things. He was meant to be the Dirge’s hostage but he didn’t look like he’d been kidnapped at all – his shirt was pressed and his face was clean.

  Seb reached for her arm. His hand was shaking. ‘Is that really him?’

  Their dad disappeared behind a hanging bedsheet. Ivy tensed. ‘He’s moving away,’ she cried. ‘We mustn’t lose him.’

  They ran past roll after roll of fabric. The air was thick with loose threads and dusty particles that caught at the back of Ivy’s throat, making her cough.

  ‘He’s turning left!’ Seb called.

  Ivy nodded. S
he tried to work out if there was anything different about her dad, but she was too far away to tell. Judging by his moderate pace, he wasn’t in any trouble.

  She didn’t understand . . .

  They turned down a deserted street, where their dad came to a halt between two large stone buildings. As Ivy and Seb approached, they heard a rumble. The cobbles beneath Ivy’s feet shook, as if the underguard’s horses were about to come pounding down the road.

  But it wasn’t the underguard making the noise.

  ‘Ivy,’ Seb whispered, pointing. ‘The fountain!’

  They hid in a shop doorway on the opposite side of the street. A chill crept over Ivy as she watched.

  Sure enough, the pale-green fountain that she and Seb had found yesterday had appeared in front of their dad. He got a hip flask out of his trouser pocket and poured something into the leaf-filled basin. Next he placed his hand deep inside it, waited a moment and then stepped back. The bricks surrounding the fountain trembled as two iron posts and a gate formed between them.

  ‘Maybe we should go after him,’ Ivy said, ‘before he disappears.’

  Seb frowned. ‘I don’t understand why he’s here, let alone why he’s going in—’ He gave a start. ‘What if the grim-wolf’s still at the mansion?’

  Ivy gasped. ‘We need to warn him!’

  They dashed straight across the street—

  And into the path of someone else.

  ‘Valian?’ Ivy stepped back, aghast. Her face flushed with anger, remembering his most recent disappearance. ‘We were arrested!’ she hissed. ‘You left us!’

  Valian was holding his arms out wide, trying to stop them. ‘Don’t go after it,’ he told them, ignoring Ivy’s remarks. ‘Don’t go into the mansion after that thing – it’s dangerous.’

  ‘After that thing?’ Seb stretched up on tiptoe, trying to get a view of the fountain. ‘That isn’t a thing! That’s our dad!’

  Valian looked frantic. ‘No it’s not. It’s one of the races of the dead.’