Big Change for Stuart

by Lissa Evans

  ‘A replica what?’ repeated April patiently.

  ‘And an oxybeles!’

  ‘An oxybeles?’

  ‘Excuse me,’ said Stuart. ‘Do you think I could possibly see where you’ve put my great-uncle’s tricks?’

  It took a moment or two for Rod Felton to re-focus his attention, and then he waved his arm vaguely towards a door labelled STAFF ONLY. ‘Down there,’ he said. ‘They’ve only just arrived so I’ve not seen them yet.’

  ‘An oxybeles!’ repeated Stuart’s father dreamily.

  ‘I’ll be with you in five minutes,’ mouthed April. Stuart nodded and slipped through the door.

  A flight of concrete steps led down to a basement, lit by a skylight that ran the length of the room. At first glance it looked like an overcrowded junk shop. A large stuffed antelope stood at the bottom of the stairs next to a faded mummy case. There were suits of armour and leather buckets, gas masks, spinning wheels, a red motorbike and a black penny-farthing. There was even the giant fake carthorse that only a few weeks before had been accidentally knocked over and broken. By Stuart. Twice. And crammed into a far corner, right next to the freight lift, were Great-Uncle Tony’s illusions.

  They were huddled together like nervous visitors, and Stuart approached them slowly, and with growing dismay.

  Two trips in a builder’s van had chipped and dented them. Paint had flaked, wires were bent, metallic edges curled or blunted. The Pharaoh’s Pyramid had a broken door, the Book of Peril had no door at all, the swords in the Cabinet of Blood were twisted, the silver stems of the Reappearing Rose Bower looked wild and wind-blown, the Fan of Fantasticality drooped on one side, and the Arch of Mirrors was blotched with black patches where mirrors had dropped off or smashed. They sat dully in the bright morning light, like unloved tin toys.

  Stuart felt heavy with guilt; he had found the workshop and used up all the magic, but he had failed to look after its contents. They needed care and skill and love and knowledge and time.

  ‘Stuart!’ It was April, calling over the banister. ‘The opening ceremony’s about to start. Have you found anything?’

  He shook his head and followed her up the stairs. ‘I don’t know where to begin,’ he said as they hurried along the corridor.

  ‘We’re missing something obvious,’ said April, frowning. ‘I just know we are.’

  They emerged into the large central room of the museum.

  One end was dominated by the Roman catapult (or ballista, as Rod Felton insisted on calling it). It looked a bit like a giant wooden seesaw with – instead of a seat – a saucer-shaped platform for loading boulders onto. The other end of the room had a mini Roman bath, with a changing room hung with togas, and a round, high-sided pool filled with water. In between was a mosaic floor, and a table with a fake banquet, including piles of plastic grapes and a plateful of cardboard chickens.

  The crowd had been ushered in and was standing in a roped-off area to one side of the room. Behind the rows of autograph-hunters, Stuart could see his father, and also a grey-haired man with a large black moustache: Maxwell Lacey, Miss Edie’s lawyer. He was looking directly at Stuart.

  ‘Welcome, everybody,’ said Rod Felton, stepping onto a small stage at the catapult end of the room, and speaking (much too loudly) into a microphone. ‘Or should I say,’ he added, with the expression of someone about to tell a joke, ‘Amici, Romani, Cives?’

  Stuart’s father (and only Stuart’s father) laughed heartily. Everyone turned to look at him.

  ‘As chief curator,’ Rod continued, ‘I’d like to say a few words about all the incredibly hard work and intense research that has gone into mounting this marvellous exhibition, so before I introduce our special—’

  There was the clatter of heels as Rowena Allsopp suddenly appeared on the stage. She was wearing a bright orange suit with metal buttons that gleamed like gold coins, and she was waving at the audience.

  ‘Oh,’ said Rod, ‘I was just—’

  ‘Hello, Beeton!’ called Rowena Allsopp, taking the microphone from him. A camera flashed, and Stuart saw that it belonged to May, who was crouching in front of the stage.

  ‘It’s so lovely to see so many of my wonderful fans here on this very, very special occasion – the unique chance to view some of my favourite outfits, which are on display in a room just down the corridor from this one, followed by an opportunity to purchase signed copies of my very own autobiography – and there’s an exciting discount if you buy more than three copies. I just can’t wait to meet you all!’

  She gave the microphone back to a stunned-looking Rod Felton. He cleared his throat and leaned across to her.

  ‘The Roman Beeton exhibition?’ he whispered plaintively.

  ‘Oh yes.’ Rowena grabbed the microphone back again. ‘I now declare this exhibition open,’ she announced briskly and unenthusiastically.

  May’s camera flashed several times in succession, and Rowena smiled and posed, blinking glassily in the brilliant light. ‘That’s enough,’ she ordered after a minute or so. ‘I can’t see a thing,’ and she tottered off the stage towards the exit.

  ‘Mind the ballista!’ called Rod.

  ‘The whatsit?’ said Rowena, looking round irritably and walking straight beyond a sign that read: CAUTION – DO NOT WALK BEYOND THIS SIGN.

  ‘The ballista,’ repeated Rod.

  ‘For heaven’s sake, why can’t you speak Eng—?’

  The photographs of what happened next ended up on the front page of every newspaper in the country. They resulted in record-breaking numbers of visitors to the Roman Beeton exhibition and eventually led to May getting a special junior prize in the European News Photo-Journalism Action Sequence of the Year awards.

  They were as follows:

  Photo 1 showed Rowena tripping over one of her heels;

  Photo 2 showed her sitting down heavily on a saucer-shaped wooden platform;

  Photo 3 showed her struggling to get up, and grabbing at what looked like a convenient lever;

  Photo 4 showed her being catapulted through the air like a giant gold-and-orange firework;

  and

  Photo 5 showed her landing, with a massive splash, in the circular Roman bath at the far end of the room.

  What the pictures didn’t convey was the disbelieving silence that blanketed the room as Rowena struggled to her feet in the waist-high water. For a moment she seemed too shocked to speak, and simply stood, mouth open, hair like dank seaweed, jacket sodden, buttons half hanging off. And then the silence was broken by one of her golden buttons dropping into the pool with a teeny tiny splish. Like a coin dropping into a fountain.

  ‘Make a wish,’ said someone at the back of the crowd.

  There was a smothered giggle, and then Rod Felton rushed forward and everyone started talking and squawking and shrieking at once. Everyone except Stuart, who stood as if rooted; in his head, an idea was beginning to grow.

  ‘Throw in a coin and make a wish,’ he muttered to himself. ‘Make a wish.’ And then his eyes widened, and he turned and grabbed April’s shoulder and said, ‘I’ve got it.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Where the will is. Come on!’ And he turned and ran out of the room and along the corridor and down into the basement, April at his heels.

  ‘The one place we didn’t think of …’ he said, panting. ‘The trick we forgot about … the illusion it all started with. And Miss Edie gave us the clue, remember? She said the will was well hidden. Do you get it?’

  The shabby cluster of tricks lay before them. ‘Here, help me move this,’ said Stuart, tugging at the Fan of Fantasticality.

  Together, they slid it to one side. Behind, fully visible now, was the Well of Wishes, and April laughed with sudden realization. ‘You’re right,’ she said. ‘Well hidden. This is the place.’

  THEY STOOD ON either side of the Well of Wishes. Scraped and battered it may have been, but it was still beautiful, steeped in shadow, dusted with the sparkle of stars.

 
‘And what else did Miss Edie say?’ asked April.

  ‘Use the male. Use the male to find it.’ Stuart could almost hear Miss Edie’s rasping transatlantic voice.

  April stared thoughtfully into the well, and then she gave a squeak and leaned further forward. ‘I can see something,’ she said.

  Stuart craned over the parapet. Just visible was a series of spidery copper letters, evenly spaced around the inside of the well.

  ‘It’s says something,’ said April, almost upside down. ‘It says … hang on … it says PLACED WHERE IT SHALL BE FOUND. Or it might be WHERE IT SHALL BE FOUND PLACED. All the spaces between the letters are the same.’

  She straightened up, her face flushed. ‘I don’t understand,’ she said. ‘How can those words help us? Either way round.’

  And Stuart was just about to shrug when the answer came to him, quick and complete and whole. ‘It’s not the words that count,’ he said.

  ‘What?’

  ‘When Miss Edie said Use the mail to help you, she didn’t mean M-A-L-E, she meant M-A-I-L! What we call post. And what do you get in the mail? Not words but—’

  ‘Letters!’ shouted April.

  ‘And the clues we got were letters,’ he said. ‘SWOTIE.’

  Together, they leaned over the parapet again. The copper letters seemed to glow softly.

  Stuart reached out his hand and touched the S of SHALL. The copper letter was slightly raised. He pressed, and it moved inwards with a delicate click.

  Without speaking, April reached out for the W and did the same thing.

  One by one, turn by turn, they touched the letters – O, T, I – and then April paused, arm outstretched.

  ‘There are four Es,’ she said. ‘Which one should I press?’

  They straightened up and looked at each other.

  ‘It was definitely E in the last illusion, wasn’t it?’ asked April.

  Stuart started to say yes and then stopped. ‘I had to find the right world in the Book of Peril,’ he said. ‘My right world. A had my wrong dad, and so did B. C was – well, C just wasn’t right, D was my wrong mum and E …’ He hesitated, and then spoke more quietly.

  ‘E was the wrong me. A taller me. I shouldn’t really have chosen E at all, I should have gone further, only I was afraid we’d get stuck there.’

  ‘And we nearly did,’ said April. ‘So thank goodness you did choose it. But that means the last letter isn’t an E – it could be any letter further along in the alphabet. So which one should I press? N? Or P? Or T? T for Tony?’

  ‘Or F,’ suggested Stuart. ‘F for final. F for finish.’

  ‘F for friendship,’ said April. ‘I think that’s the one we should try. Don’t you?’

  Stuart nodded, and April leaned back over the parapet and pressed the letter. With a sound like a gentle sigh, a section of the parapet slid aside, leaving a hole the size and shape of a letter box.

  They both peered into it.

  ‘Go on, then,’ urged April, giving Stuart a bossy nudge. ‘It’s yours.’

  Stuart started to lift his hand, and then he stopped. He thought of April shouting advice to him in the Arch of Mirrors. He thought of her working out how to operate the Reappearing Rose Bower. He thought of her running unhesitatingly back into danger to find Charlie.

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘It’s not just mine.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘It wouldn’t be fair. I couldn’t ever have got this far by myself.’

  April looked puzzled, and then – as his meaning dawned on her – her eyes widened. ‘Do you really mean it?’ she asked.

  ‘I mean it,’ said Stuart. ‘We both get the will. One. Two. Three.’

  Together they reached into the letter box, and together their fingers touched a papery cylinder and drew it out. It was tied with a length of red string, and April untangled the knot, and Stuart smoothed out the paper. It was headed:

  and was followed by half a page of handwriting, all long, convoluted sentences stuffed with complex words.

  ‘Complicated, isn’t it?’ muttered Stuart.

  ‘May I see?’ asked another voice behind them.

  They spun round and saw Maxwell Lacey.

  ‘Because if you’ve found a will, then I really would advise you to consult a lawyer,’ he said, holding out his hand. ‘I guarantee that my current service will be free of charge.’

  Stuart looked at April and she shrugged. ‘Might as well,’ she said. ‘We can’t make head nor tail of it.’

  Maxwell Lacey read the document carefully and then let it snap into a cylinder again before handing it back.

  ‘Straightforward,’ he said. ‘And fully legal. In essence, the discoverer of the will is the owner of the magical illusions – finders keepers, in other words.’

  ‘Ours to keep,’ said Stuart, his mouth curving into a grin. ‘And ours to sell.’

  ‘Indeed,’ agreed Maxwell Lacey. ‘And I’m sure my client’s offer will be to your joint satisfaction. I shall, of course, have to speak to your respective parents, who would be advised to take financial advice of their own, but in the case of—’

  ‘Excuse me?’ said April, putting up her hand. ‘Can I ask something?’

  ‘Go ahead, young lady.’

  ‘I’m just being curious, but what’s Miss Edie actually going to do with the illusions?’

  For the first time, Maxwell Lacey appeared disconcerted. He paused, and appeared to choose his words. ‘I believe that she has a specific destination in mind for them.’

  ‘You mean a museum or something?’

  ‘No, I don’t think a museum is part of her plans.’

  There was a pause. Stuart looked at April, and then back at Mr Lacey. ‘What do you mean, a destination?’ he asked.

  The lawyer gave a short sigh. ‘My client’s grandmother, Jean Carr, was a shrewd businesswoman with a particular interest in the invention and manufacture of stage tricks. She emigrated from England to Canada and founded a huge and successful industry.’

  ‘We know,’ said April and Stuart simultaneously.

  ‘You do? Well, with a portion of her frankly enormous fortune, she had a statue of herself erected outside the factory she owned, with a space underneath for a large metal plaque, detailing her remarkable life and achievements. Some eighty years after her death, the space for that plaque remains empty.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because apparently – and I have no explanation for how this is possible – she wished for it to be manufactured from a very specific metallic source.’ He cleared his throat and his gaze slid past Stuart towards the objects behind him.

  Stuart caught his breath. ‘Great-Uncle Tony’s tricks,’ he said. ‘She wanted these tricks found and then melted down and made into the plaque!’

  Maxwell Lacey nodded stiffly. ‘That is correct. And that is precisely my client’s intention.’

  ‘But that’s such a waste,’ exclaimed April. ‘A waste of money and a waste of things – these tricks are fantastic, they’re unique.’

  ‘It’s Jeannie Carr’s revenge,’ said Stuart, with utter certainty. ‘If she couldn’t have them, then she wanted to make sure that nobody else ever could.’

  He felt suddenly protective of the shabby cluster of illusions. They didn’t deserve to be squashed and ruined; they should be cherished, he thought. Cherished and used. He remembered the strange feeling he’d had of being on a bridge: on one side of him a heap of cash, on the other the world of illusion and adventure conjured up by his great-uncle.

  April had her hand up again.

  ‘Yes?’ asked Maxwell Lacey.

  ‘Why did you tell us?’

  ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘Why did you tell us what Miss Edie was going to do with the tricks? Did you have to? Legally, I mean?’

  The lawyer’s eyebrows shot up in surprise. ‘Ever thought of becoming a lawyer yourself?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes,’ said April.

  ‘OK, well then – no, I didn’t have to tell you.’<
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  ‘So why did you?’

  ‘Because I happen to agree with you that it’s a waste. I think Miss Edie could do a whole lot of charitable good with the money she possesses, instead of spending it on some kind of ancient score-settling that I don’t happen to understand. However, as her lawyer, I am obliged to carry out her current wishes.’

  ‘Yes, but we’re not,’ said Stuart.

  ‘No,’ echoed April. ‘And if we don’t agree to sell them, then maybe she’ll spend her cash on something better.’

  A small smile appeared on Maxwell Lacey’s pale, composed face. ‘You would be turning down a life-changing amount of money.’

  ‘My life’s already changed,’ said Stuart.

  ‘And I don’t know that I want to change my life that much,’ said April. ‘I already argue with my sisters most of the time. Imagine the arguments we’d have if I was the only millionaire in the family. And anyway, I’d rather become a millionaire by doing something brilliant and useful.’

  Maxwell Lacey nodded. ‘Yes, I can see that happening,’ he said drily. ‘And you,’ he asked Stuart. ‘Will you become a stage magician like your great-uncle?’

  Stuart tried to imagine himself standing in a spotlight in front of a huge, expectant audience, and hastily shook his head. ‘I think I’d rather do something adventurous. Outdoors. Crossing deserts on camels, mapping out uncharted territories.’

  ‘Bravely rescuing people who’ve got stuck,’ added April, nudging him.

  ‘Yes, that sort of thing,’ he said, a bit embarrassed.

  ‘So what will you do with Tony Horten’s legacy,’ asked the lawyer, ‘if you don’t sell it to my client?’

  All three of them turned to look at the illusions, and Stuart thought of his great-uncle’s message:

  The Well of Wishes, the Pharaoh’s Pyramid, the Arch of Mirrors, the Fan of Fantasticality, the Reappearing Rose Bower, the Cabinet of Blood, the Book of Peril: seven miracles of engineering, seven gateways to magical worlds (now closed for ever), seven tricks in need of skilled and loving attention and an admiring audience.

  ‘I’ve got an idea,’ said Stuart.