ICAP 2 - The Hidden Gallery (16 page)

“Ahoooooooooooy!”

“Ahoooooooooooy!”

“Ahoooooooooooy!”

Even as Penelope dragged and cajoled them up the aisle, the eyes of the Incorrigibles remained riveted on this inexplicable bird, with its canine howls and bright green plumage, miniature peg leg, and rakish three-cornered hat.

“Alexander! Beowulf! Cassiopeia! Stay close, we must leave at once—excuse me, pardon me, we must get through—”

But it was too late.

“Ahooooooooooooooooooooy!”
the bird wailed.

“Caw! Caw!”
replied Cassiopeia with enthusiasm, flapping her arms like wings.
“Ahwoooooooooo!”

“Ahoooooooy!”
Now the bird sounded confused.

Beowulf joined in.
“Ahwoooooooooo!”

“Ahoooooooooooy!”
screamed the parrot in terror.

From somewhere in the auditorium, Lady Constance Ashton stood up and yelled, “Have I gone mad, or is it those dreadful Incorrigible children? Stop! Stop it this instant! For I am developing the
most—excruciating—headache—
waaaaaaaaaaaaah!
”

“Ahooooooooooooooooooooy!”
the bird wailed.

Now even Alexander could control himself no longer.

“Ahwoooooooooo!”

“Ahwoooooooooo!”

“Snack
ahwoooooooooo
!” bellowed Cassiopeia, pointing at the bird. All three children dashed for the stage, barking and growling and having what seemed to be a simply marvelous time.

If the terrified parrot harbored any plans to continue its performance, they were now abandoned. The bird shook off its eye patch and tried to take flight. Alas, one of its legs was tethered by a long, thin cord to the epaulet of the actor pirate upon whose shoulder it had so recently perched. The poor bird flapped and flapped, cawing and screeching, but since it could not escape, all its efforts merely created a flurry of green feathers flying here and there, with every move illuminated by the footlights.

Now on the stage, Alexander, Beowulf, and Cassiopeia did their best to catch the bird, which easily stayed out of reach. The pirate to whom the squawk box was attached bore the brunt of the abuse, as the parrot flapped in a panic around his head.

“Green feathers!” yelled Cassiopeia, batting the
rain of plumage from her head. “Like man on train!”

“Will no one assist us?” Penelope cried from the back of the theater, but then she remembered (as you no doubt will as well) the awful truth of the Who, Me? syndrome. With so many people watching this catastrophe unfold, the odds that any one of them would offer to help were tragically slim. In fact, most of the audience seemed to think the sudden appearance onstage of three howling children was part of the show. They sat up straighter in their seats and took out their opera glasses so as not to miss any of the action.

One of the pirates, a tall one, with dark hair and an oddly shapeless nose, raised his sword high. “Avast, ye hearties! The ship has been stormed by blackguards! Renegades! Cutthroats! Bilge rats who're yappin' and barkin' like scurvy dogs! We'll brook none o' that on my ship! Those three howlin' sprogs'll walk the plank, or I'm not yer captain!”

“Harrrrr!” the pirates roared, shaking their sabers to the rafters.

“But he is not your captain, or anyone else's,” Penelope protested loudly from the aisle. “He is an actor! And not a very good one, either,” she added without thinking.

A hush descended over the Drury Lane Theater.
Now Cassiopeia was standing on Beowulf's shoulders, stretching toward the bird. The parrot shrank as far from Cassiopeia's reach as it could, its claws digging deep into the scalp of the protesting actor to whom it was attached.

Alexander, who, alone among his siblings, had realized he was now making his West End debut, spoke.

“Pardon me, Captain,” he said in a clear and stage-worthy voice. “Why plank?”

“Because ye scared me parrot, ye scurvy brat!” the captain roared. “Get 'em, men!”

The captain lunged. The children ran. The pirates, with swords in the air and the scent of rum on their collective breath, pursued.

“Oh, my heavens—can it be? The hunt is on!” Penelope cried, but not a soul heard her above the thunderous din of applause.

“B
RILLIANT
! G
ROUNDBREAKING
! A
LAUGH A
minute!” So the members of the audience marveled to one another as they rushed to the lobby, for they all assumed it must be intermission. “The best first-act finale since
Attila the Hun in Iambic Pentameter
. Now, shall we purchase some snacks?”

Penelope's review would have to wait. “Alexander! Beowulf! Cassiopeia! Where have you gone? Wait! Wait for me!” Manners forgotten, she pushed and elbowed her way through the lobby doors and stood on Drury
Lane, frantically calling, “Children! Where are you?”

By now the pirate actors (or actor pirates, if you prefer) had also emerged from the theater, still in character, and still in pursuit of the Incorrigibles. Their cries of “Harr!” and “Scurvy brats!” rang all around her. Were they acting? Penelope could not tell. She was fearful for the children, but she was also furious to the point of being in very high dudgeon indeed. Imagine, three perfectly nice children and their governess attend the theater, which ought to be a cultural and educational experience of the highest order, and they get attacked by pirates instead! On dry land, no less!

She tugged on the tail end of the nearest pirate's bandanna and fiercely scolded, “Sir! This has gone far enough. It is obvious that you are trying to add some excitement to your premiere at the children's expense, and I find it simply unacceptable. I assure you, I will be lodging a complaint with the management.”

“Harrrr!” the pirate yelled, ignoring Penelope completely. “Tharrrr they arrrrrre!”

“Wharrrrr?” Penelope replied, without thinking. The pirate talk was rather contagious.

“Tharrrrr!” He pointed his cutlass toward the street.

“Lumahwoooooooo!”

It was the Incorrigibles!

“Say! Say, Miss Lumley! Over here!”

And Simon!

“Whoa, whoa, there! Don't just stand there, miss—unless you want to be run through by a bunch of sea knaves?”

And—Old Timothy?

It
was
Old Timothy! The Ashtons' brougham was in Drury Lane, directly in front of the theater, with Old Timothy in the driver's seat. He was having a devil of a time keeping the horses from bolting, what with all the pirates swarming about. Penelope could not have been more surprised if Agatha Swanburne herself were holding the reins.

“Easy, easy!” The old coachman's neck muscles strained to whipcords as he held the horses back. “Get in, miss, before these ruffians frighten the horses half to death! Whoa, easy—”

The carriage door opened; in a flash, Simon's hand reached out to help Penelope up. The moment she was inside, Simon called out, “All aboard! Time to set sail, and quick.”

“Aye!” Old Timothy turned and cracked his whip over the heads of the pirates, to scatter the crowd.

Crack!

Then again over the horses.

Crack! Crack!

They reared and hit the ground at a full gallop; the carriage heaved into motion, and a bouncy, bumpy, bone-shaking ride it was. The traffic around the theater was dense, but Old Timothy drove the horses through it like a man possessed. The Incorrigibles whooped and hollered as if they had never had so much fun in their lives.

Still reeling from the shock of it all, Penelope looked around the carriage. There were Simon and all three Incorrigibles, sitting next to a heap of rags. Between whoops, the children nibbled on flat, circular cakes. Their happy faces were covered with crumbs.

“Snacks, hooray!” Cassiopeia announced, showing Penelope the half-eaten cake. Before anyone could explain, the rags spoke.

“Nice babies. Feed babies.” From the midst of the pile a wide, semitoothless grin emerged, and the Gypsy revealed herself from within the camouflage of her own shawls.

The carriage lurched and swerved. Simon held on to his hat and said, “Miss Lumley, allow me to present Madame Ionesco. Prognosticator extraordinaire. Although I think you've met once before.”

“How”—bump!—“do you do?” Penelope said,
astonished. “I am pleased to be properly introduced to you, madame. Though I must say, this is all rather unexpected.”

“Is unexpected for me, too,” the fortune-teller confided. “And I see future, so unexpected things very rare.”

“Madame Ionesco was kind enough to agree to join us after the show, for a modest fee, of course,” Simon explained. “We'd just concluded negotiations when we saw the children run out, and those ridiculous pirates—and then the Ashtons' driver appeared and offered to drive us all to safety.”

“I knew wolf babies be at pirate show,” the old woman bragged. “I saw it—here….” She closed her eyes and gestured in the air, indicating the Realm of Mysterioso.

“Thankawoo for yum-yum Gypsy cakes,” Beowulf said, taking another.

“You welcome, honey.” Madame Ionesco seemed far better prepared for this adventure than Penelope was. Clearly, prognostication had its advantages.

“Hey!” It was Old Timothy, yelling over the clatter of galloping hooves. “Before you serve tea and crumpets, would you mind tellin' me where we're goin'?” For indeed, the pirates were still chasing them. Some
were on horseback, some were on foot, and some—could it be?—were riding velocipedes.

“Harrrrr!” the pirates yelled, waving their swords.

“Ahoooooooy! Caw! Caw!”
The parrot had finally gotten loose from its tether and was now serving as navigator, flying after the brougham and then swooping back toward the pursuing pirates to show them which way to go.

Penelope spoke urgently to Simon. “If my understanding of theatrical custom is correct, the interval will soon be over, and the actors will have to return to the theater to perform the second act. We simply must hide until then.”

“How about my garret? It's a bit downtrodden to be sure, but well off the beaten path.”

Penelope frowned. “Off the beaten path is not good enough. We need someplace truly obscure.”

“Little trafficked,” Madame Ionesco suggested. “More cake, wolf babies?”

Little trafficked? Could that truly be what the old Gypsy had said? But no matter. Now Penelope knew exactly what to do. She laid a hand on her purse and felt the familiar outline of the
Hixby's Guide
within.

“Take us to the British Museum,” she ordered the coachman. “And hurry!”

 

“T
HE MEW-EEZUM
! T
HE MEW-EEZUM
!” T
HE
children were overjoyed. First the theater, and now a trip to the British Museum; surely this had been their most educational day in London yet.

Old Timothy's cries of “hep-hep” and “hee-yah!” kept the horses at full tilt. The carriage bounced and rattled along the stony streets, at times so violently it seemed as if the wheels would shatter. At this pace Penelope knew she had only moments to ask the fortune-teller all the questions that had been wheeling through her mind.

She spoke quickly and low, so the children would not hear. “Madame Ionesco, on the day we first met, you said something to the children. ‘The hunt is on.' Can you tell me what it means?”

“Shhhhh!” The Gypsy closed her eyes and made a series of strange gestures with her hands. “There is curse on the wolf babies, and on their kin,” she intoned. “Terrible curse, made long before they were born.”

“A curse? Madame Ionesco, that's absurd,” Simon interjected.

The fortune-teller shrugged. “‘The hunt is on.' See for yourself.”

Penelope craned her neck out the window. That
there were throngs of rampaging actor pirates pursuing their carriage
was
thoroughly absurd, yet it seemed thoroughly dangerous, too. The costumes were silly, the accents ridiculous, but the swords were ever so sharp.

She turned back to the Gypsy. “Madame, I have been told you are a true Soothsayer from Beyond. A Seer Through the Veil. A person who can Glimpse Beyond the Mist.”

“Thank you, honey.” Madame Ionesco flashed her semitoothless grin. “I do my best.”

“With all your powers, then—can you remove this curse?”

Madame Ionesco looked nervous. “If curse had been made by a human person, maybe. But it was not….”

Penelope felt goose bumps prickle on the back of her neck. “Not human? Then what were they cursed by?”

In answer, Madame Ionesco threw back her head and howled.

“Ahwooooooooooo!”

Beowulf and Cassiopeia joined in merrily.

“Ahwooooooooooo!”

“Ahwooooooooooo!”

“Mew-eezum!” Alexander announced. “Arriving now!”

The horses whinnied as the carriage rocked to a halt. Penelope tried to thank Old Timothy for his timely rescue, but the old coachman simply tugged at his cap and grumbled, “I'm at your service, miss—yours and the children's,” which struck Penelope as a meaningful yet enigmatic sort of remark.

But any further conversation with Old Timothy would have to wait, for as soon as his passengers were out of the carriage he leaped back into his seat, grabbed the reins and the whip, and drove off at once. He was going back to the Drury Lane Theater, for there was no telling what had become of Lady Constance in all the chaos, and she was, after all, his employer.

With their rescuer gone, Penelope, Simon, Madame Ionesco, and the children were left standing at the entrance to the British Museum.

“Parthenon,” said Alexander, admiring the building's design.

“Nice pediment,” Beowulf observed.

“Big, big, big, big, big,” said Cassiopeia, counting the row of massive fluted columns that lined the colonnade.

All three children were quite correct, for the British Museum had recently been given a new entrance that looked like something out of ancient Greece. It would
have been a perfect opportunity for a lesson on the relationship between neoclassical and Greek Revival styles of architecture; alas, there was no time. They had eluded the rampaging pirates for the moment, but the theatrically inclined parrot still swooped overhead. With a mocking
“Caw! Caw! Ahoooooooy!”
it darted back the way it came.

“That parrot will lead our pursuers here within minutes. We must find Gallery Seventeen at once,” Penelope said as she retrieved the
Hixby's Guide
from her purse.

Simon gazed at the imposing pillars of stone. “Say, Miss Lumley—I hate to mention it, but as it's a bit late in the evening, the museum is closed.”

“Have no fear; on the subject of Gallery Seventeen, Mr. Hixby's instructions are quite thorough.” She found the page and read. “‘After hours, use the hidden entrance.'”

“Where hidden entrance?” Cassiopeia asked Alexander, who was already fiddling with his compass.

“I don't know, Cassawoof. Is hidden.”

“Tharr!”

“Harr!”

“Ahooooooy!”
The sound of their pursuers was faint in the distance, and growing closer.

“May I?” Simon took the
Hixby's Guide
and unfolded the map. “If only I had my sextant—what do you think, Alexander?”

While Simon and the children examined the map, Penelope turned to Madame Ionesco. “I am afraid those sword-wielding thespians will be here any moment. Can you create some sort of diversion? It may buy us the time we need to escape.”

The fortune-teller chuckled. “I queen of diversion. You watch.”

Simon and Alexander were clearly getting nowhere; they turned the map 'round and 'round as if they were trying to find the top end of a triangle. “This map is highly detailed, but the hidden entrance does not appear to be on it,” Simon said in frustration.

“I told you, is hidden,” Alexander explained with a shrug.

Suddenly Beowulf let out a sharp bark to get everyone's attention. “Beowoo idea!” he exclaimed. “Follow the smell of paintings!”

Penelope and Simon exchanged a look. Beowulf clearly was being optoomuchstic, and yet—

“It's an absurd plan, but I have no better one,” Simon said.

“It is worth a try, at least,” Penelope agreed.
“Children, if you please: sniff!”

The Incorrigibles sniffed. They closed their eyes and sniffed again. One after another, they caught the scent.

“Oil paints!” Cassiopeia pointed.

“Turpentine!” Alexander pointed the same way.

“Ominous Landscapes—tharrr!” Beowulf cried. All three children bolted around the side of the museum.

“I make distraction! No worries! Save babies!” Madame Ionesco yelled after them. But there was no time to look back, for Penelope and Simon were already chasing after the Incorrigibles.

 

S
NIFFING AND RUNNING AND THEN
sniffing some more, they made it all the way 'round the back of the museum before finding the source of those distinctly artistic aromas: a rather ordinary-looking door tucked behind a hedge. Close inspection revealed that the door was marked with the faded numerals one and seven.

“This must be the hidden entrance to Gallery Seventeen! Well done, children.” Penelope made a mental note to positively spoil the children with treats when they got home, as a reward for being so clever.

Simon pulled mightily at the door, which was stuck in the way of a door that was rarely, if ever, used.
Beowulf helpfully lubricated the hinges with a bit of drool; after a “heave, ho!” from Simon and a final twist to the knob, the door creaked open.