by Lissa Evans
CHAPTER 21
When Rod Felton had said that a camera crew from Midlands at Midday would be turning up at the museum, Stuart had expected:
a) a cameraman
and, possibly,
b) a soundman.
What he hadn’t expected was:
c) an assistant to the cameraman
d) an assistant to the soundman
e) a man with a bag of tools and one thousand feet of cable
f) an assistant to the man with the bag of tools and one thousand feet of cable
g) an assistant to the assistant to the man with the bag of tools and one thousand feet of cable
h) a woman with a clipboard and a stopwatch
i) a man with headphones and a beard
j) another man who introduced himself as the producer and then stood around doing nothing
k) a teenage boy who got everybody a coffee and then stood around doing nothing
l) a woman who introduced herself as the director and then wandered around anxiously doing nothing but saying things like, “I don’t like the light in here,” and “How am I supposed to get my angles?” in a voice that sounded as if some terrible tragedy had just taken place
and finally,
m) a small dog.
For an hour Stuart and April stood in a corner and watched the producer and the director wander randomly around the room, pointing at things. They saw the assistant to the cameraman move a large lamp six times before replacing it with a small lamp. They saw the dog investigate every single item in the room before lying down in a patch of sunlight and going to sleep.
“What’s wrong with these people?” muttered April. “They’re so slow. Why can’t they make any decisions?”
“Hi there,” said the show’s producer, at last ambling over to see them. “We’re just waiting for the show’s host to arrive. When she comes, we’ll stick her in front of one of these trick thingies for the interview. Maybe she can sit on the big throne with all the flowers.”
“It’s actually called the Reappearing Rose Bower,” said April.
“Is it?” he asked, not sounding terribly interested. “Or we might go for that Wishing Well thingy. She could throw a coin in. Or maybe the red cupboard thingy with the swords.”
“You mean the Cabinet of Blood,” said April. “They’ve all got names, you know. And seeing as you haven’t decided yet, can I suggest you use the Fan of Fantasticality as a background? It’s really beautiful when it’s open, and we’ve worked out how to shut it as well. Do you want us to show you?”
“No, that’s okay,” said the producer.
“It’s no trouble. And it would definitely look really good. And the mirror arch is really impressive as well. Maybe you could start with a shot of that, and then one of us could actually hide inside the Pharaoh’s Pyramid and—”
The producer was beginning to look a bit irritated by April’s stream of suggestions, and Stuart was just about to give her a nudge to stop talking when the door opened and yet another person came in.
This time it was a tall and glamorous-looking woman with glossy chestnut hair, a cream suit, and shoes with heels so high that she was practically walking on tiptoe.
“What a drive I’ve had!” she exclaimed. “I barely knew that this town existed. It’s miles and miles and miles from anywhere!”
The producer hurried over to her, and so did the boy who got coffees, and there was some gesturing toward Stuart and April and a fair amount of whispering. Then the woman came over to them, her heels clacking on the wooden floor.
“Hi!” she said, looking down at Stuart. “I’m Rowena Allsopp.”
It was obvious from the way she said it that Stuart was supposed to know who she was. He glanced at April.
“Famous Midlands TV host,” muttered April out of the side of her mouth.
“Hello,” said Stuart. “You’re a famous Midlands TV host, aren’t you?”
“That’s right, and you’re the one who found Tiddly Tom’s magic tricks?”
“We both did,” corrected April quickly. “And his name wasn’t Tiddly Tom. It was Teeny-Tiny Tony Horten.”
“And how old are you?” asked Rowena, not even glancing at April. “Eight?”
“Ten,” replied Stuart.
“Oh.” Rowena sounded a bit disappointed.
“I’m ten too,” said April.
“Okay.” Rowena nodded, totally ignoring her. “Let me go and have a word with my producer.”
She click-clacked off again, and odd bits of the conversation floated back: “… see what you mean about the girl … more impact if the story’s just about the small fellow—we needn’t mention his age …” and then, rather faintly, “I can’t bear bossy kids …”
Stuart didn’t dare look at April, but out of the corner of his eye he could see her turning pink.
“I was just trying to help,” she said, a bit huffily. “I thought they should get their facts straight.”
Around them, things suddenly started getting busy. Rod Felton appeared, beaming at everyone. May and June Kingley sneaked in, May with her camera, June with a notebook. Plugs were plugged in, lights went on, the microphone was waved around, the dog was ushered away from the Fan of Fantasticality, where it had been sniffing interestedly, the producer shouted, “Going live in three minutes,” and Stuart found himself shoved in front of the Well of Wishes with Rowena beside him. Feeling half proud and half embarrassed, he grinned nervously at April, who was watching from the corner. She gave him a rather miserable thumbs-up in return.
“Counting down,” said the man with the beard. A red light blinked on the side of the camera. “Going live in ten seconds. Nine, eight, seven, six, five, four …” He held up three fingers, then two, then one, then pointed dramatically at Rowena.
“Incredible as it may seem,” she said, gazing into the lens, “the little town of Beeton, not previously known for anything of interest, has turned out to be the hiding place for a fantastic magician’s workshop. The magician was called Teeny-Tiddly Tommy Norten, and it was his very own grandson who made the dramatic discovery while watching a talent contest in Beeton Park. Here to tell us his incredible story is little Stuart Norten, who has gone from being a museum-hating vandal to being the curator of this exhibition.”
The camera tilted way down, as if it were filming a beetle crawling on the ground, and Stuart looked up at it, no longer half embarrassed, but totally, completely, and utterly embarrassed.
“I wasn’t a museum-hating vandal,” he said. “It was an accident.”
“So, Stuart, what happened when you found the workshop?” asked Rowena, talking to him as if he were a toddler.
“Well, me and my friend April saw that there was a bulletin board on the base of the bandstand, and we realized it was a bit loose, and when we looked behind it we realized there was a huge room underneath us….”
As Stuart told the nonmagic version of the story, Rowena did a lot of nodding, but he got the feeling she wasn’t really listening. Looking up at her was making his neck ache, so he dropped his gaze and saw the small dog sidling around the edge of the Fan of Fantasticality.
“And then,” he continued, “I turned a wheel which I thought would open a door, and instead of that, the whole middle of the bandstand started to sink, and sudden—”
The man with the beard and the headphones started tapping his watch and signaling to Rowena.
“Wow!” said Rowena, interrupting Stuart in the middle of a word. “That’s incredible. Now let’s talk to the chief curator of the museum, Rod Felton.” She walked past Stuart to where Rod Felton had been positioned in front of the opened Fan of Fantasticality.
“So, Rod, tell me the impact that having these fabulous items has had on your museum.”
“Well, Rowena,” he said, “it’s certainly an exciting find, one that’s going to keep our summer program ticking along nicely—but perhaps we should ask a visitor. Oh, look!” he added, with obviously fake surprise. “Here’s o
ne you could speak to!” He gestured rather woodenly to his left, just as Stuart’s father walked around the side of the fan.
“Oh no,” muttered Stuart, wanting to crawl into a hole at the thought of his father on television.
Rowena shot a puzzled look at her producer and then managed a professional smile. “Good morning, sir,” she said. “Can you tell us what you think of this exhibition?”
“I would classify it as both serendipitous and recherché,” replied Stuart’s father.
Rowena’s smile slipped a bit. “I think what our viewers want to know is whether you enjoyed it or not.”
“An unequivocal affirmative to the former. But I am also ardently anticipating the forthcoming opportunity for examining our present conurbation in its pre-Saxon context.”
Rowena gawped at him. “You what?” she asked.
“Aha!” said Rod Felton, stepping forward. “You must mean the Roman Beeton exhibition, opening here at Beeton Museum in ten days’ time—Tuesdays to Sundays 10 a.m. to 6 p.m., except on Wednesdays when we close at three. Packed with interest for both the expert and the beginner! See you there!”
He smiled and waved at the camera, resting one foot, in a relaxed sort of fashion, on the edge of the Fan of Fantasticality.
There was a loud boinggg, the fan snapped shut, and Rod Felton flew sideways through the air and knocked over Rowena Allsopp.
May Kingley’s camera flashed.
“CUT!” shouted the producer. “CUT! CUT! CUT! BACK TO THE STUDIO! Are you all right, Rowena?” he added, running forward.
“No, I am not!” shrieked Rowena, struggling to her feet and dusting herself down. “In my entire professional career I have never taken part in such a fiasco. Children who won’t shut up, adults who talk total gibberish, amateurs who try to take over my interview, and now a vicious attack by a dangerous machine, all on live TV and watched by my millions of fans. And I’ve broken a nail and”—she frowned down at herself—”and there’s something on my jacket. Something wet. And there’s a … a puddle on the floor just where I fell.”
Everyone looked down at the small puddle. Then everyone looked over at the small dog.
Rowena screamed.
“I am so, so sorry,” said Rod Felton.
“You will be,” said Rowena hysterically. “The whole of the Midlands has just seen me land, live, in a pool of dog urine. Apologies aren’t good enough. I’m going to call my lawyer and get this entire museum shut down!”
CHAPTER 22
Stuart and the triplets stood in the corridor outside Rod Felton’s office and listened to the argument going on inside. Phrases like “personal injury liability” and “health and safety inspection” were being shouted really loudly. June was doing a lot of scribbling in her notebook. Stuart’s dad had wandered off to the bookstore.
“They can’t actually close the place down, can they?” whispered April.
One by one the camera crew trailed past them, lugging their equipment toward the entrance. The last one to leave was the teenage boy, balancing a column of coffee cups. A couple of feet behind him came the small dog. It was brown and white with a pointed muzzle and very short legs.
“Shoo,” said the teenage boy, turning. “Go home.”
“Isn’t it yours?” asked Stuart.
The boy shook his head. “It followed us in. Must be a stray.”
The dog paused uncertainly, and Stuart watched as it turned and trotted back into the exhibition room. Something was tugging at his memory.
At the same moment the door to the office was wrenched open, and Rowena Allsopp stalked out, followed by Rod Felton, who had turned a bit pale.
He looked down at Stuart and April. “Right,” he said, “er … we’ve reached a useful compromise. Rowena won’t sue us for criminal injuries and personal humiliation if we immediately close down the magic exhibition and replace it with a temporary display of her favorite outfits from Midlands at Midday. We’ve also agreed to stock copies of her brand-new biography, Rowena’s Way, in the museum bookstore, as well as placing a full-size cardboard cutout of her by the cash register.”
Stuart and April turned to watch Rowena leave the building, the main door crashing shut behind her.
“On a brighter note,” added Rod Felton, “she’s agreed to come and open the Roman Beeton exhibition, which should get us quite a lot of publicity. She’s going to combine it with a book signing.”
“But what about Great-Uncle Tony’s tricks?” asked Stuart indignantly. “Where are they going to go?”
“Yes, you’ve put your finger on a slight problem,” admitted Rod. “Our storeroom’s pretty full at the moment. I wonder if one of the larger regional museums might take them until we’ve got some free space again. I’ll start making some phone calls.” He went back into the office.
Stuart looked at April. “What are we going to do?” he asked. “If they end up in a warehouse in Birmingham or somewhere, we’ll never get to see them.”
“Let me think for five seconds …” said April, squeezing her eyes tight shut. “Perhaps we could—”
“A petition!” announced one of her sisters.
“What?” asked April, opening her eyes again. “What are you going on about, June?”
“Save Beeton’s Magical Heritage,” said June, making every word sound weighty and important. “It’s precisely the sort of thing the Beech Road Guardian should be doing. It’s a matter of civic pride. We can print up a special edition—with photographs,” she added, looking at May, who nodded eagerly. “And I’ve got an idea for temporary storage of the magic tricks.”
“What is it?” asked Stuart, feeling left out.
June held up her hand like a traffic cop. “No,” she said firmly. “First I need to put down my thoughts while they’re fresh.” She turned to a clean page in her notebook and started to write.
“And I’ve got some brilliant photographs of the whole dog-peeing incident,” announced May, beaming.
April nudged Stuart. “Shall we let them get on with it?” she whispered.
He nodded, but distractedly.
“What’s up?” she asked.
“I’ve just remembered something,” he said, and walked quickly back to the exhibition room.
The dog was sitting on the bronze throne of the Reappearing Rose Bower, curled in a neat circle. It raised its ears as Stuart approached.
“What have you remembered?” asked April, catching up.
“I’ve seen this dog before. When I was in the desert, just as I’d managed to piece the pyramid back together, I caught a glimpse of it.”
“This dog? This actual dog?”
“I think so. And in Great-Uncle Tony’s message it said that he’d lost an old pal, and pal means friend, doesn’t it? So I’m wondering if this is who he meant. I mean, we haven’t seen any people, have we?” The dog lifted its head and regarded them with anxious brown eyes.
“But in that case, how did it get out of the pyramid and into our world?” asked April, and then she clapped a hand to her mouth, her eyes wide.
“What?” asked Stuart.
“I’ve just remembered something too. When I was in the Arch of Mirrors, after I shouted all that useful advice to you about choosing the right reflection, the lights started to dim, and I could feel myself being sort of pulled back to the museum. And just as it got completely dark I heard something behind me. A clicking noise. Like little toenails on a hard floor, following me back to the real world …”
They both looked at the dog, and after a moment it twitched its tail in a half-greeting.
Stuart reached out and gave it a cautious pat, and it wagged its tail harder and craned around to sniff at his fingers. Its coat was warm and wiry. It occurred to him that the last person to pat this dog had been Great-Uncle Tony.
“I’ve never had a dog,” he said. “Only goldfish.”
“Stuart,” said April tentatively. “Sorry to change the subject and all that, but since we’ve got a bit of time here
, do you think we ought to make the most of it? After all, there’s still three spokes of the star left. And that must mean three more clues—three more letters to find.”
Stuart felt in his pocket and took out the awkward little metal object. The next trick to try would be the throne of the Reappearing Rose Bower.
“You know we can’t both go on this one …” he said.
April nodded. She clasped her hands in front of her, like someone being good in class, and Stuart could see that she was desperately hoping to be picked.
And he had an idea—a slightly mean idea, but a good one; an idea that would ensure he’d be the only one who found the final letter clue, and therefore the only one who’d be able to find the will.
“If you go on this adventure,” he said, “when we get to the last one, can I do it by myself?”
She gave a little hop of pleasure. “Absolutely. Thanks, Stuart—and I’ll be as quick as I can, because hanging upside-down isn’t very nice. Er … can I suggest something?”
“What?”
“Go to the bathroom before you strap yourself in there.”
Five minutes later, Stuart climbed onto the throne of the Reappearing Rose Bower and handed the magic star to April.
“Look after the dog, would you?” he asked. He could see it roaming around the room, its stump of a tail wagging briskly.
“Of course,” said April.
“And good luck.”
“Thanks. See you soon.”
She was grinning as he pulled the lever; the silver stems of the rose bower closed in a tangled thicket around him, and the metal strap snapped across his middle. He pulled the lever again and managed not to yell as he spun upside-down into utter darkness.
“You okay?” shouted April, sounding very far away.
“Mmmm,” was all Stuart could manage by way of an answer.
“I’ll be off then.”
There was a little pause, an odd scuffling noise, and then a metallic clink directly above him. For a second the seat shook like the top of a washing machine on spin cycle, and then all was quiet again.
