The Magical Peppers and the Great Vanishing Act

by Sian Pattenden

  “Don’t you think we should hang on to these?” asked Monty, still clutching his mask.

  “No, they might weigh us down.”

  Monty stopped to think.

  “We are doing the right thing, aren’t we, Es? Do we definitely know that Henry has hidden the skull in the museum? Maybe he’s put it in a suitcase, got his passport and made for the nearest airport.”

  “I did think of that.” said Esmé. “But why would Henry want to go anywhere? He wants to put on an incredible, world-beating royal opening right here. He wouldn’t leave town. No, the skull must be nearby. We must hurry.”

  Monty dropped his mask, and the Pepper twins ran. It did not take long before they found the Big Ruffled Collars room – and Dr Dee’s mirror.

  The black mirror glimmered, despite being surrounded by dull light. Esmé looked at the code on the information panel. She tried to read it forwards, then backwards – but it looked like gobbledygook.

  “What do the symbols say, Esmé?” asked Monty.

  Esmé bit her lower lip – the code was a jumble. How had she been so silly as to think that she could decipher it in minutes? This was a task that took people – experts – months, years even.

  “I’m not sure...” she said.

  “Come on, Es, we haven’t got all day,” Monty said. “Where are the secret passageways?”

  Esmé squinted at the panel, flummoxed. It was no use – the symbols were all over the place. None of them seemed to be repeated in the way a letter would be in a sentence. Maybe this wasn’t a language after all, but a grand practical joke.

  “I’m sorry, Monty, I don’t know.”

  Monty was upset. “But we have to find out,” he urged. “We have to get the skull and rescue Potty! The Bonces will catch up with us sooner or later and we’ll be thrown in jail with Potty for breaking and entering, or stealing African face masks... or anything.”

  Esmé sighed. “It’s, erm, I just can’t…” she trailed off. “Wait a moment.”

  Monty noticed that she was squinting at the code again, her head tilting a little to the left.

  “Have you got it?” he asked.

  “Nearly,” Esmé said, concentrating hard. Then her face broke into a broad smile. “That’s it! It’s not an actual code – the symbols don’t mean anything in themselves.”

  “Really?” said Monty.

  “It’s much simpler than that. The symbols aren’t letters that make up words to form a sentence. If you half-close your eyes, they turn into a map of the secret passageways that are right underneath us. And if I am correct, what we’re standing on here...”

  Esmé leant over to press a small button that was hidden at the base of the display cabinet.

  “Is a trapdoor.”

  All of a sudden, a hatch beneath their feet opened and the Pepper twins dropped to the passageway below. A soft landing came by way of a large pile of feather pillows. A semi-startled Monty glanced at a label that was attached to one of them. It said:

  A GIFT TO THE NATION FROM THE QUEEN AND KING OF PERU. FOR MUSEUM USE ONLY. NO PETS, PLEASE.

  Esmé glanced around. They had found the secret passageway.

  An excerpt from

  TRICK: Eggs from a Hat

  Invite two persons from the audience on to the stage and show them a nice big hat. From it you produce an egg, then another, then another and so forth.

  As you do, you hand the egg to person 1, who then has to pass it to person 2. You instruct both never to drop the eggs, which, nonetheless, just keep on coming.

  And this goes on until person 1 is rapidly dropping eggs here, there and everywhere, to the amusement of the audience. Their enjoyment comes from the almost endless number of oeufs produced from your hat – and the surprise on the helpers’ faces.

  The secret of where all the eggs are coming from lies in the hat, which has a specially prepared inner lining with a slit in the crown, in which you have previously stashed them. Sewing and handicrafts will help you, and presentation is the key to this trick. Keep up the pace.

  This trick was made famous by the Great Raymondue-Fondue, who performed it throughout the world and on the outskirts of Wolverhampton. He was exceptionally fast with the eggs.

  It is important to be organised when you are filing your tricks and storing them. One misplaced wand or a bunch of silk flowers in the wrong place and you will lose precious time a-searching, and not performing. I once tried to produce a rabbit from a hat at a dinner party in Leicester, only to find I had made a can of spaghetti hoops appear from a sandwich. Of course I turned it all around with instant patter, but I was a little embarrassed.

  Find some shoe boxes or similar – if the boxes are roughly the same size they are easier to store – and keep your props in them. Label the outside of each box clearly, so you know what is in there. That way you will not be tripped up by Life’s Certain Chaos.

  In all totality,

  riiing briiing! Briiing briiing!

  Her Majesty the Queen looked at the telephone. Seated in her small study at the palace, the phone was not far away, but she hesitated before picking it up.

  The Queen did not like it when anyone called on the private number – she was always mistrustful. She hoped it wasn’t the blasted prime minister again, telling her about all the great policies he’d put in place that day in order to keep the price of butter up and the cost of legwarmers down. Or was it one of those sportspeople, Lord So-and-So, who wanted to build a new stadium so people could practise crazy golf or Yahtzee. The Queen had had quite enough of sport since those blasted Olympics.

  And so it was a great relief to Her Majesty when she heard the voice of Henry J. Henry on the other line. She hoped that he’d have an update about the royal opening – maybe some extra-comfy seats and free Twix bars to anyone whose father had once been king.

  “There’s been a small problem,” Henry’s voice quavered.

  “What is it, Mr Henry J. Henry?” answered the Queen, irritated that he was bothering her with difficulties.

  “Please, just call me Mr Henry,” simpered Henry.

  “Mr Henry J. Henry,” repeated the Queen.

  “Or, just Henry?”

  “One is calling you Mr Henry J. Henry, Mr Henry J. Henry, because one is the Queen.”

  “Some people simply call me—”

  “Mr Henry J. Henry J. Henry,” said the Queen, starting to lose patience. “Please get to the point.”

  “The Potty Magician – who as you know was to perform here the day after tomorrow – has had a little, um, accident,” said Henry. “He tripped over a spoon and broke his leg so he can’t perform at the royal opening.”

  “Oh.” The Queen was disappointed. She had been a keen fan of the Potty Magician since his brief appearance on the Britain’s Gone Magic! TV show six months ago, when he turned a turnip into a Thai banquet for two. “Can’t he use crutches?” she said, exasperated. “Or simply sit down?”

  “Erm... the fracture is extremely serious,” replied Henry. “Actually, there are two fractures, maybe three. And his arms don’t look too good, either.”

  “You said he fell over a spoon?” The Queen did not quite believe her royal ears.

  “Well, it was a big spoon, Your Majesty – more like a catering spoon. He’s probably broken his nose as well.”

  “Would it be possible to have Potty beamed in by satellite from his hospital bed?”

  Henry was silent. Hospital – he hadn’t thought of that one.

  “He is in hospital, isn’t he?” enquired the Queen.

  “It’s very far away,” spluttered Henry. “Norfolk.”

  “Well, that doesn’t matter as far as satellites are concerned, does it?” Her Majesty was becoming more and more irate. “He could be in blasted Timbuktu and all you’d need would be a camera and a live link-up. Mr Henry J. Henry J. Henry, one is not amused.”

  “I could find someone else...”

  “One is disappointed,” said the Queen. “But one shall sti
ll be visiting the day after tomorrow, as it is one’s jewels you’re showing, after all.”

  The Queen put the phone down. Something was not right, but she could not put her royal finger on it. Henry’s story about Potty’s injuries was rather far-fetched – was he being entirely truthful?

  “One smells a rat...” she said to herself.

  Many years ago, when the Queen had first ascended the throne, she had found it hard to adjust to queenly life. The dinners with visiting dignitaries (she still didn’t really know what a dignitary was) were long and boring. The food was always bland and the portions were small. She had to wave to strangers when she was out and about, which was very dreary and made her right wrist seize up in cold weather. She was never allowed to wear interesting clothes, or outrageous make-up, or stick her tongue out at the prime minster. Instead, Her Majesty had had to learn how to be pleasant, polite and punctual. So every now and then, when it all got a bit too much – on an afternoon off (how she had at first hated saying “orf”) or with a morning to spare – she decided to pep things up a little. On these occasions Her Majesty the Queen would take to the streets in secret, disguised as a punk rocker called Bert.

  Bert had a green mohican and liked swigging fizzy pop from a can. But although it was great fun – and spitting in public became her speciality – the Queen soon found this costume was harder and harder to get away with. Bert’s many punk friends started asking lots of awkward questions, such as why she never went to the 2000 Club where all the new bands played and why she pronounced off as orf.

  And so, a little while later, the Queen decided to create Celia Nutkins. Celia liked wearing floral housecoats, lived on her own in a small flat, had a hamster named Bryan and was a whizz at cross-stitch (Celia, not the hamster).

  After the phone call with Henry, the Queen knew that it was time for Celia Nutkins to make a short visit to the Mega-Million Super Museum, to find out just what on earth was going on.

  Her Majesty opened the drawer in her study and took out a curly wig, housecoat, nylon skirt and trainers. It took mere seconds to become Celia.

  “One is impressed,” she murmured, looking at herself in the mirror. Then she walked downstairs through the back exit so no one would see her go. Celia Nutkins pulled her old battered motorbike from the staff garage, swung herself on to the seat and zoomed off towards the Mega-Million Super Museum in search of the rat himself, Mr Henry J. Henry J. Henry.

  An excerpt from

  TRICK: Penny and Coat Hanger Trick

  This trick uses simple physics, and it is a good way to start a show. Bend a metal coat hanger to make it more of a diamond shape. Place a penny on the hook of the coat hanger {fig. 1} and then spin the hanger, with the penny still balanced, round your index finger. Practise this many times and the penny will stay on, defying gravity. This is good to perform in front of small children and excellent if you have just had a large fish supper and would rather not be too energetic with your act. I do hear that some magicians try and add coins to the pile, but I have found it rather tricky.

  I have seen some of the best conjurors perform around the world, as I have no doubt already informed you in earlier volumes, and some of their tricks I can decode, others I am simply befuddled by. The invention of the mobile phone means a thousand new magicians use phones for their tricks and have them ringing all over the stage – from trouser pockets, cardboard boxes, members of the audience or from inside small vegetables. Some magicians use technology to great advantage to update more traditional tricks. I myself find mobile phones confusing, with all those buttons and bleeps, so have decided not to use them. But if you can make a telephone ring from a Staffordshire bull terrier, you will wow your audience time and time again.

  In all totality,

  he Pepper twins found themselves in a long tunnel surrounded by a lot of dust – small dusty items, medium-sized dusty items and large dusty items. Everything was covered in a thick layer of dust. Even the walls had cobwebs on them. Dusty cobwebs.

  The passageway stretched straight ahead, poorly lit by bare electric bulbs. It was the perfect place to hide a crystal skull. Now all they had to do was find it.

  Esmé and Monty started simply by walking.

  “I hope the security guards don’t know about this part of the building,” said Monty as they travelled along the corridor.

  “Me too,” said Esmé, gripping Monty’s arm. “We need to find the crystal skull as soon as possible.”

  The passageway was crammed with objects that were presumably too big, too dull, too strange or indeed far too dusty to be displayed in the museum itself. The first thing they came across, which almost completely obstructed their way, was a giant ball shape wrapped in brown paper.

  “It must be at least two metres wide,” said Monty, intrigued by its size. “What is it?”

  It was addressed to SIR HANS TOAST, HOLBORN, LONDON, ENGLAND and the sender was marked as SIR HANS TOAST, EXPLORER’S HUT, INNER COSTA RICA, CENTRAL AMERICA.

  “Too big for a game of football,” said Monty.

  Esmé turned over the label that was attached to the wrapping. “It’s a giant stone ball from the Costa Rican jungle,” she remarked. “It says, ‘Catalogue Number: HT 132,674 CR. Discovered in the 1930s when we were clearing the way for a banana plantation. Have not yet found out what it is used for. Am sending it back to London via boat in order to carry out more research. Signed Sir H. Toast.’ Maybe he never found out anything more.”

  The Peppers squeezed past the ball shape and continued up the corridor.

  The next object that lay directly in front of them was a stuffed rodent-like creature. Monty read the accompanying tag this time.

  “‘Catalogue Number: HT 104 JTM. Jeff the talking Mongoose was a phenomenon in Scotland in the early part of the 1900s. An animal that lived inside the wall of the family home, he told the family he was a ghost and used to play tricks on them, similar to a poltergeist, but in mongoose form. Signed Sir H. Toast.’”

  Monty turned and looked back the way they had come. “I’m certain I can hear footsteps,” he whispered.

  “Let’s keep moving,” said Esmé.

  The Pepper twins hurried on through the dusty corridor, past a big stone object labelled CAVEMAN MOBILE and another bulky item called EARLY INCA TELEVISION SET. There were pots in a corner that were cracked and broken, and even several stuffed camels.

  But no crystal skull.

  Eventually, Esmé and Monty came to the end of the passageway, and a closed door. A small metal nameplate read SIR HANS TOAST, MUSEUM FOUNDER.

  “This looks like the entrance to Hans Toast’s study,” said Esmé excitedly. “I read about it in the library book. It was a very special place, but few knew its whereabouts. Toast used to sit down here for hours, cataloguing his treasures. I think Henry J. Henry must have known about this room all along. If he’s the museum boss, there’s no way it would still be a secret to him.”

  “Are you sure?” asked Monty.

  “I have a strong feeling Henry knows everything about the museum,” replied Esmé, trying the door.

  “It’s locked.”

  Monty turned round. “I can definitely hear those footsteps, Es,” he whispered. “Come on, we haven’t got much time. Try the door again.”

  Then Esmé remembered the penknife in the pocket of her cagoule, took it out and started to fiddle with the lock.

  “Did the great escapologist, Maureen Houdini, teach you how to do that?” asked Monty. Esmé nodded as the door creaked open to reveal Sir Hans Toast’s study.

  As the Pepper twins entered, they saw it was lined with old wooden cabinets, comprising hundreds of drawers, each labelled on the outside. Also squeezed into the room was a bookcase and three glass cabinets containing stuffed birds – an emu, a cockatiel and a dodo. Framed paintings of exotic, richly coloured flowers were placed on the large oak desk in the centre of the room.

  “Wow,” said Monty. “I wish our magic shed looked like this.”

>   “I wonder what’s in those drawers. The crystal skull, maybe?” said Esmé, walking up to a wooden cabinet and looking at the labels. “Oh, I think it’s all plant samples.”

  As she gazed at the Latin names in tiny handwriting, Esmé thought how exceptionally intelligent and interesting Sir Hans Toast must have been. She started to open some of the bigger drawers, just in case the skull had been hidden inside one of them.

  Monty scanned the bookcase. “Ah!” he gasped, delighted. “There’s an ancient copy of Dr Pompkins – Totality Magic in here.”

  “Just try finding the skull,” replied his sister. “We haven’t much time.”

  “Got to have a quick look,” said Monty, unable to resist taking the copy from the shelf. “This is a newer edition of Pompkins than the one at home.”

  He grabbed the enormous book and took it eagerly to the desk.

  “How is that going to help?” asked Esmé, exasperated, closing a drawer filled with fossilised stones.

  “It’s not as dusty as the others,” said Monty. “And there’s a bookmark. Someone must have read it recently.”

  Esmé joined Monty at the desk, as he carefully opened the book at the marked page. He slowly began to read aloud.

  “‘Trick: The Vanishing Skull.’”

  Esmé and Monty looked at each other in disbelief.

  “Maybe it’s a coincidence,” said Monty. “Perhaps it was Hans Toast’s favourite trick.”

  But Esmé pointed to the bookmark, on which was printed BOOKMAGIC.COM.

  “This book must have been used in the last few years,” she said. “Hans Toast died in nineteen sixty-one. There was no internet then.”

  Monty flicked to the title page.

  “Esme, there’s another clue. A gigantic clue.”

  “What?”