ICAP 2 - The Hidden Gallery (15 page)

“You can find it when we get home, silly. Now call for Timothy to bring the carriage 'round, please! And tell him we'll take the brougham; it looks terribly sharp in the daylight—”

“Already did, my dear. You might say I'm itching to leave myself, what?” Lord Fredrick commenced to rub his back against the door frame. “Where the blast is he—ow, ow,
wow bow wow
—”

A butler stepped around him and announced, “Your carriage is waiting outside, my lord.”

“Got your wrap, Constance?” Lord Frederick said between scratches.

“Of course. And my sword, tee hee!” No one laughed, but Lady Constance seemed not to care; she was too busy admiring her scabbard.

“
Yap!
Pardon me!” Lord Fredrick looked embarrassed. “Blast these sneezing fits! Coming down with a bit of a cold, I'm afraid.”

Penelope and the children watched Lord Fredrick in fascination. Even in the span of these few minutes, his twitching, scratching, and grunting had become more pronounced. So much so that Lady Constance, who rarely paid close attention to other people, had
no choice but to notice.

“Are you all right, dear?” she asked impatiently. “You are frightfully twitchy.”

He pawed frantically at his ear and peered out the window. “Bit of a rash, I think—must have been something I ate. Hours before dark yet, I see. What sort of moon are we expecting, eh? Anybody know? Would it possible to change our tickets for another night, I wonder?”

“Don't be ridiculous, Fredrick; it's the premiere! And who cares about moonlight?” Lady Constance said gaily, taking her husband's arm. “Soon we shall see all the footlights blazing!”

“Quite so, dear—
woof!
Pardon me.
Yap!
”

And with that, they left.

 

I
N THE KITCHEN
, in the laundry, in all the distant parlors of Number Twelve Muffinshire Lane, Penelope knew there were servants tending fires and trimming candlewicks, dusting shelves and sweeping carpets, filling washbasins with fresh water and emptying the old—but still the house seemed terribly quiet. As pleasant as it was to escape the grating prattle of Lady Constance and the bizarre behavior of Lord Fredrick, it also felt oddly sad to be the one left behind.

Odd, perhaps, but hardly surprising. Imagine how it would be if several people of your acquaintance purchased new outfits in anticipation of a special occasion, got dressed in a flurry of giggles and jokes, and then headed off in a group, chatting and laughing, while you remained at home in stretchy exercise pants, with nothing to do but sort socks. Penelope rarely indulged in self-pity, but now she felt as she imagined Cinderella must have, after her mean stepsisters headed out for the ball at the palace and left poor Cinderella home alone to pick lentils from the ashes.

“Yet it is only right that Lady and Lord Ashton enjoy a night out,” she thought bravely. “For they are wealthy and of the noble class, and I am not. My place is here, being a good governess to the children—and answering Lady Constance's mail,” she concluded with a sigh. “But answering letters is far less unpleasant than picking lentils out of ashes, so I shall do my best and try to be cheerful about it.”

Penelope put the Incorrigibles to work on the letters as well—not answering them, of course, but counting them. They had carried all the mail into the dining room so as to have use of the big table; now the children were sorting the envelopes into groups of five and ten and thus got in a bit of practice with their
multiplication tables. It was not nearly as much fun as a night at the theater would have been, but educationally speaking, at least the evening would not be a total waste.

Knock! Knock!

Two sharp raps at the front door echoed throughout the house.

“Not the post, again,” Penelope thought as she blotted yet another letter (this one she had signed, “In spite of everything, my lips remain sealed. Yours, Lady A.”) How many more letters could there be?

“Ten…twenty…thirty…” The children were excellent counters, which merely underscored how very many pieces of correspondence were already on hand. All this mail, and still no word from Simon, and none from Miss Mortimer either! It hardly seemed fair, and all too soon their stay in London would be over. So far their trip had not been quite the nonstop carnival of culture Penelope had hoped for, what with all the distracting danger and mystery and so on, but still, it was London, and who knew if and when she would return? The footlights of the West End might remain a distant, unfulfilled dream forevermore.

And she might never see Simon again, either. Poor Simon! She hoped he had not been convicted as a thief
and transported to Australia over that silly velocipede. All his troubles had been caused by trying to be helpful to Penelope, and now she would never even get to say, “Thank you” to dear, kind, perfectly nice Simon.

“Simawoo,” Alexander said.

With a twinge of embarrassment Penelope realized that she must have spoken the name aloud. “Yes, Simon,” she said briskly. “Now, about those multiplication tables—”

“Simawoo,” Beowulf tugged at her sleeve and pointed.

“Sim
ahwoooooo
!” Cassiopeia howled in delight.

“That's right, kids. It's me! Simawoo Harley-Dickinson, late of Scotland Yard. Good evening to you, Miss Lumley. Say, I hope you don't mind me barging in like this.”

Penelope stood up. The letters in her lap fell to the floor, and her mouth fell as far open as her jaws would allow. “Mr. Harley-Dickinson! I am so very glad to see you! Are you all right? Oh, I have imagined the most dreadful things”—and she stopped right there, for she was afraid she might melt into a puddle of tears, which hardly seemed appropriate, given how happy she was.

The children felt no such confusion; all three leaped upon Mr. Harley-Dickinson as if he were a human jungle gym. He just laughed.

“I tell you, Miss Lumley, lately my life has been one dramatic plot twist after another! You're a good influence, I must say—all of you.” Gently he peeled the children from his limbs. “I must apologize for missing our appointment yesterday. You see—”

“It was the velocipede!” she exclaimed.

“Indeed it was. No sooner had I completed my tour of every bookstore in London—”

“Did you find any
Hixby's
?” she blurted again.

Simon smiled. “I'm getting to that! No sooner had I finished my tour of the bookstores of London than I was stopped by a police officer. The fellow takes a long, suspicious look at my mode of transport. ‘Proof of ownership!' he demands, and holds out his meaty hand, like so.

“‘Now, sir,' I say, ‘on what basis can you demand such proof?'

“‘I'm demandin' it because this contraption matches the description of one such item reported stolen,' he says.

“‘What's the description?' I say.

“Without even checking his notes, the fellow replies, ‘Velocipede, slightly used. Two wheels, handlebars, black.'

“‘I see,' I say. ‘And when was it stolen?'

“‘This very morning,' he says.

“‘Well,' I say, ‘here's my alibi: This morning I was out at the zoo with Judge Quinzy—a judge, mind you—and if you don't believe me, you can ask hizzoner yourself.'

“‘Well,' he says, ‘all right, come with me to the station house and we'll see about this Judge Quinzy of yours.' So we go to the police station. Forms are filled out in triplicate. Handcuffs applied. And I wait, and wait. After a lifetime or so, the officer comes back. ‘No such judge,' he says.

“‘What do you mean?' I retort. I tell you, I was miffed! No such judge? ‘I rode in the bloke's carriage myself,' I say.

“And the bobby replies, ‘There's no Quinzy in the
Directory of Judges
, is what I'm saying.' He showed me the book himself, and he was right. No Quinzy at all. It made my alibi sound a wee bit suspicious, and that's how I got thrown in the lockup. They only let me out because—you won't believe it—some cheeky rogue stole the velocipede! Right out of police headquarters!” Simon slapped his knee in hilarity. “No evidence, no case. They had to let me go.”

“Oh, no!” Penelope was both horrified and fascinated by this strange and comical adventure. “But—handcuffs, dear me! It must have been awful!”

“Awfully interesting, more like it. What an inspiring collection of rogues I met in the clink! I've got enough material for twenty plays now.” He beamed. “I tell you, Miss Lumley, ever since I met you and these charming Incorrigible children, unexpected things just keep on happening. I'll never be at a loss for words again.”

“Quinzawoo, zoo, who?” Cassiopeia, asked, meaning, obviously, “If, as you say, there is no such person as Judge Quinzy, then who was the man who took us to the zoo the other day?”

“Good question, Cassawoof.” Simon hoisted the girl onto his knee. “That chap we met calls himself Judge Quinzy. Whether Quinzy's his real name I can't say, but he's definitely not a judge.”

Penelope was bursting to know: “And the
Hixby's
?”

His expression grew serious. “It's just as you guessed, Miss Lumley. I checked every bookshop from here to Charing Cross. There are no
Hixby's
guides, of any kind, anywhere. Nobody's ever heard of them. What you've got there is sui generis.”

“Latin?” Beowulf asked excitedly.

“Clever boy! Latin it is. ‘Sui generis' it means ‘one of a kind.' As for Madame Ionesco, the missing Gypsy, what with being in jail and all, I haven't been able to conduct a thorough search for her just yet. However,
on the way over I did manage to come into possession of these—”

As if all the rest were not extraordinary enough, Simon now proceeded to reach into his vest pocket, from which he produced a fistful of tickets. At first Penelope was taken aback; all she could think of was that man outside Buckingham Palace, selling tickets to the pauper's food line.

“Are those—tickets?” she gasped.

“Not just tickets, Miss Lumley. Theater tickets!” He grinned. “Remember I told you I was acquainted with the stage manager at the Drury Lane? And they had a new show, opening tonight, as it happens? Apparently the King of Belgium, or Hungary, or some other midsized European nation, bought a whole box for the premiere and then canceled due to a civil war breaking out, so my friend had some extra seats to dispose of. Five, in fact.”

“
Theater
tickets! You don't mean—” Penelope could scarcely believe it.

“That's right, Miss Lumley.” Already the children were swaggering about like sailors; Alexander had put up a hand to cover one eye. “We're going to see
Pirates on Holiday
.”

“D
ON'T LOOK NOW, BUT EVERYTHING'S
about to change,” warned Agatha Swanburne, and the wise woman was right as usual. The fickle Fulcrum of Fortune had seesawed back again, this time with Penelope on the upward-bound seat.

In terms of luck, one might say the Incorrigible children and Simon were zooming skyward as well, for soon they would all be enjoying the premiere performance of
Pirates on Holiday
from the luxurious comfort of the Royal Box. Five tickets, free of charge! This was
an unexpected development indeed.

Perhaps it was the abrupt change in altitude, but Penelope was practically light-headed with joy. However, she had not completely lost her grip. She knew it was optoomuchstic to think they might get through the evening without running into the Ashtons, or to imagine that such an encounter would be anything less than extremely unpleasant. What explanation would she give for her presence at the Drury Lane Theater?

“The truth is always best,” she concluded as she quickly assembled clean clothes for the children and brushed the dust off her one and only hat. And who could worry about such things now? If they were going to make the curtain, they had to leave at once. Simon assured her it would be fastest to walk, since the streets around the theater got so congested in the evenings that even the omnibus could scarcely pass. Nor was there time to feed the children a proper dinner, and the kitchen was all out of biscuits. Penelope trusted that the excitement onstage would be enough to engage their attention until snacks could be provided, after the show.

“Moon, moon, moon, moon, moon,” the children counted as they marched along. Penelope assumed
they were thinking of the circled dates in Lord Fredrick's almanac, but no; they were passing one of those long, rectangular, neoclassical buildings one saw so often in London, with scores of windows all in a row. Each window framed a reflection of the moon, which had risen even as they walked. It was as full as a moon could be, round as a dinner plate and glowing with an eerie blue-white light.

“Say, children,” said Simon, after the “moon, moon, moon” chant began to grow tiresome. “I know another song you might like. It's about Drury Lane, and we're on our way to the Drury Lane Theater. I'll teach it to you.”

He did, and now he and the children sang:

“Do you know the Muffawoo?

The Muffawoo, the Muffawoo!

Do you know the Muffawoo,

Who lives on Drury Lane? Woof!”
all the way to the theater.

Penelope did not join in. She kept glancing up at the moon, and thinking of Lord Fredrick and his odd behavior. She thought of the sui generis
Hixby's
guidebook, the fictitious Judge Quinzy, and the mysterious danger Miss Mortimer had warned her about. She thought of the Incorrigible children's “unusual
background,” and the long-lost Lumleys, too.

Penelope had already done quite a bit of math that day, between teaching the children how to figure the area of a triangle and performing a thorough review of the multiplication tables, but at the moment she only longed to “put two and two together,” as the saying goes, and come up with some sort of answer that made sense.

Alas, the solution was not yet clear.

 

T
HERE WAS A RUCKUS OUTSIDE
the lobby of the Drury Lane Theater, and it had nothing to do with muffins.

“Does anyone need a ticket?” Lady Constance Ashton cried plaintively. “For my husband was taken ill at dinner, and went home, or so he says. Personally I am not sure I believe it, for he was completely fine this morning! I think he simply does not care about attending the theater; no doubt he would rather be at his club. Ticket? Ticket, anyone? It is the premiere, and you would get to sit with me—Lady Constance Ashton, of Ashton Place—anyone?”

Perhaps it was because Lady Constance's Fulcrum of Fortune had taken a nosedive, or perhaps it was the foolish pirate outfit—for whatever reason, and despite the desirability of the ticket, Lady Constance found no
takers. However, she was on the receiving end of many curious, pitying, and disdainful looks.

“That is my mistress, Lady Ashton,” Penelope whispered to Simon. They were still outside the theater, hidden by the crowd, but close enough to witness this sorry spectacle. “Let us wait here a moment, until she takes her seat.”

“All right,” said Simon. “But she looks like she's lost at sea. Oughtn't we go over and tow her back to shore, so to speak? Maybe we could jolly her up a bit.”

Penelope sighed and remembered how she had tried and failed to befriend the lady in the past. “Your suggestion is very kind, but I am afraid things are never so simple with Lady Constance.”

The children started gesturing wildly. “Gypsawoo, gypsawoo!” they cried.

Penelope turned, but Simon saw her first. “Say, it's Madame Ionesco!” he exclaimed. The semitoothless old soothsayer had set up shop in the narrow alley that led to the theater's stage door. At the moment she was reading the palm of a man who was either a pirate, or an actor dressed as one. Judging from his expression, the news from the spirit world was not good. Even so, Madame Ionesco stayed in firm possession of his one hand while he dug into the pocket of his breeches with
the other. Finally he produced some golden (or were they gold-painted?) doubloons, which she examined thoroughly before accepting.

“Gyps
ahwooo
!” Beowulf howled, rather loudly.

Madame Ionesco looked up and saw the children. Quickly she extinguished her burning pots of incense and began packing up her tools of prognostication: her fortune-telling cards and her crystal ball, her draw-string bags filled with carved runes and the bleached bones of small, unlucky animals.

“She is leaving! We must speak to her,” Penelope tried to dash toward her, but the theatergoing masses were like a tide pushing in the other direction.

Clang! Clang!
An usher rang a handbell to get the crowd's attention. Then he shouted, “Last call for
Pirates on Holiday
. The show is about to begin. All ticket holders into the theater!”

Simon shoved four tickets into Penelope's hand, keeping one for himself.

“Miss Lumley, you and the children take your seats. I'll follow Madame Ionesco and make arrangements for us to meet her after the performance.”

The crowd surged toward the doors; Penelope struggled to keep the children near her. “But what about
Pirates on Holiday
?”

Simon glanced over his shoulder. Madame Ionesco had folded up her stool and was now scurrying down the street. In a moment she would be gone. “What this woman knows is important, isn't it?”

“It may be. But it would be a pity for you to miss the show! You procured the tickets, after all—”

Simon shook his head. “I've seen plenty of shows. But you haven't. I'll catch the fortune-teller; you and the children enjoy the play. Don't worry, Miss Lumley. I'll be back before intermission.”

Penelope watched anxiously as he fought his way against the throngs. “I hope nothing untoward happens to him this time,” she thought. “After all, he is only recently out of prison.”

Clang! Clang!

“All ticket holders into the theater! Last call!”

 

T
HE CROWD RUSHING INTO THE
theater was like one of those strong beach currents that you can only swim along with until it decides to toss you willy-nilly onto the sand. Penelope and the Incorrigibles were caught and swept inside; they clung fast to one another just as they had in Euston Station on the day they arrived in London.

The usher looked skeptical when Penelope and the
children presented tickets that read
ROYAL BOX
, but he handed them programs and waved them on. Up the stairs they climbed, until another usher directed them to walk down a side aisle and through a small door. They found themselves in a private compartment of upholstered seats, almost like a train compartment but open on one side so they could watch the show, and so near the front of the auditorium as to be nearly on top of the stage.

From this crow's nest Penelope could see everyone in the audience—and everyone could see her, she realized in dismay. It would be bad enough for Lady Constance to discover her Poor Bright employee and three wild wards at the theater; it would be another degree of calamity altogether for the lady to realize they had the best seats in the house. Penelope slouched down in her seat, held up her program to shield her face, and hoped the show would begin soon.

Alas, the Incorrigibles were far too excited to hide behind programs. Alexander had brought his compass and was using it to determine the orientation of the stage. Ever interested in art, Beowulf was transfixed by the murals painted on the ceiling of the theater, which featured adorable winged cherubs playing golden harps.

Cassiopeia, whose usual bedtime was fast approaching, yawned and stretched herself out across her seat and the empty one next to it that waited for Simon. “Cassawoof tired,” she complained. “Hungry. No dinner. Want snack.”

“See, Cassawoof,” Beowulf pointed upward. “Pigeons. Yum.”

Penelope looked up, too, and saw the plump, tasty-looking cherubs, with their birdlike wings. “Oh, dear me, they are not pigeons at all—” she began to scold. But before more could be said, the footlights were lit, the curtain rose, and
Pirates on Holiday
began.

So this was the professional London theater! From the opening notes played by the orchestra, it was as if they had been whisked to another world. The actors were good, as good as Leed's Thespians on Demand, the popular troupe Lady Constance had hired to perform at the disastrous holiday ball at Ashton Place. The plot was comical and terribly convoluted, with pirates who were actually noblemen in disguise, noblemen who were being impersonated by pirates, several different intersecting love stories, a hunt for stolen treasure, and of course, eye patches, scabbards, and peg legs galore.

It was, in a word, spectacular. Penelope had not been so thoroughly entertained since reading
Jump,
Rainbow, Jump!
for the first time. That was a wonderful story, too, about how dear, sweet Rainbow got over his fear of jumping. But this was entertainment of a different stripe altogether, for on top of all the other delights unfolding on the stage, every now and then the pirates burst into song. Rainbow could whinny quite prettily on command, and always came trotting up when Edith-Anne whistled “God Save the Queen,” but it was hardly the same thing.

“Lumawoo,” whispered Cassiopeia. “Hungry! No dinner! Want snack now.”

“Yum, yum,” said Beowulf, gazing up at the murals.

Alexander used his compass to navigate. “Tasty cherub birds, north by northwest—”

“Shhh,” Penelope said, unable to tear her eyes from the stage. “We shall purchase snacks at the interval. Now, let us listen to the play.”

 

A
ND THEY DID, MORE OR
less, and everything proceeded swimmingly, until Scene Three, when a new actor made his entrance (it might have been a her, actually, but it was impossible for Penelope to tell, for reasons about to revealed). The new actor was no more than a foot tall (not counting his—or her—tail), in bright green with scarlet and yellow markings. The garishly
colored creature was perched on the first mate's shoulder. It was, in fact, a parrot.

“Surely it is only a prop parrot,” Penelope told herself. But then the creature squawked and batted its wings. Nervously it twitched its head around as the lights hit it.

“Ahoy, matey!” it croaked, blinking at the audience. “Caw, caw!”

As the laughter and applause died down, Penelope thought of how the pigeons of London had tempted the children to pounce. How they had had no dinner. How Beowulf was already drooling at the sight of painted winged cherubs (who, to be fair, were very meaty and tender looking).

Suddenly alert, Cassiopeia tugged on Penelope's sleeve. “Snack?” she whispered eagerly, her eyes glued to the stage.

“It is not a snack,” Penelope whispered back, as firmly as a person can whisper. “It is an actor. That parrot is a professional thespian, highly trained.”

Penelope was righter than she knew. For, much as actors specialize in pretending to be that which they are not, often with the use of clever disguises, noses made of putty and inscrutable accents, this parrot, too, was pretending. It was a real parrot, make no mistake.
But it was not a pirate's parrot. It was a thespian parrot. And no parrot in the wild was likely to know how to emote in quite the way this one did—

“Ahoy, matey!
Caw caw!
Ahoy!
Ahoooooooooooooy!
”

Was Penelope imagining it? Was the parrot—this thespian parrot, impersonating a pirate's parrot, with a miniature costume eye patch covering one beady little bird eye—was this talented avian of the stage
howling
?

“Ahoooooooooooy!”

“Ahoooooooooooy!”

“Children, come with me,” she ordered as she stood up and unceremoniously dragged the three Incorrigibles out of their seats.

Alexander was puzzled. “Show not over, Lumawoo.”

“True, but it is nearly intermission, and if we go now we will be first in line for the biscuits on sale in the lobby.” Try as she might, she could not find the exit to the Royal Box in the dark. Instead, she clambered over the side. The children were much better climbers than she was and leaped over nimbly. All four of them landed with a thud in Row K of the orchestra section, which was, of course, occupied.

“Sit down, miss, you're blocking the stage.”

“Ow! Watch your step, lady! That was my foot!”

With uncharacteristic rudeness, Penelope ignored
the complaints of her fellow theatergoers, for the bizarre screeches emanating from the stage were getting louder and wolfier by the minute.