ICAP 2 - The Hidden Gallery

by Wood, Maryrose

  The Incorrigibles were still busy playing with the velocipede. Penelope wondered how much she ought to reveal, but one look at Simon’s perfectly nice face made up her mind. Quickly she told him all she knew about the children’s “unusual background.”

  Now it was his turn to be riveted. “Raised by wolves! You don’t say,” he exclaimed when she was done. “I’d write a play about it, but no one’d believe me.”

  And then, because she simply had to trust someone, she told Simon everything: all about the strange goings-on at Ashton Place, the mysterious danger that Miss Mortimer had warned her about, and the fortune-teller’s bizarre words, “The hunt is on.” The only part she left out, in fact, was Miss Mortimer’s request that she not investigate the matter further. For truly, what harm could come of satisfying her curiosity?

  “So you see, Mr. Harley-Dickinson,” she concluded, “that is why I must speak with that Gypsy. Unlikely as it seems, the semitoothless soothsayer may know something about what lies beneath all these confounding events.”

  Simon shook his head. “I’m afraid I’ve got bad news for you, Miss Lumley. I haven’t seen Madame Ionesco for days—not since the day I met you and the children, in fact.”

  Penelope could scarcely conceal her disappointment. “Is it unusual for her to be absent for so long?”

  “A bit, yes. She’s usually busy prognosticating all over the neighborhood. You’d be amazed what people will pay for a glimpse of the Great Unknown.”

  “I hope no terrible fate has befallen her,” Penelope said, alarmed. “Or are people in her profession able to foresee such calamities and avoid them?”

  Simon shrugged. “Wish I knew. But even a fortune-teller’s entitled to a holiday now and then. Perhaps she’s taken a trip out of town. If you like, tomorrow you and the children can come by my garret for a visit, and we can take a look ’round the neighborhood for her. Afterward I’ll show you some of my theatrical haunts. ‘The life of a bard revealed,’ and all that. Say, there’s a new show opening at the Drury Lane. If we play our cards right, the stage manager will let us in to watch a rehearsal.”

  A show! Penelope found the idea far more exciting than she dared let on. “That would be amusing,” she remarked, trying to sound casual. “And tomorrow Lady Constance will be out all day visiting the poor, which means we may come and go—” She could have said, “without provoking a ridiculous tantrum,” but that would have been unkind. “Without disturbing her,” she finished.

  “Visiting the poor? Say, that’s admirable. This Lady Constance must be a good egg, as rich ladies go.”

  Penelope suppressed a smile, for she had not yet given up hopes of befriending Lady Constance. “You are very kind to say so,” she answered, quite sincerely. “In any case, we would be delighted to join you. The tour you propose sounds highly educational.”

  “Or educashawoo, as the Incorrigibles would call it. Cute, the way they do that. Makes a bit more sense, now that I know about the wolf business. Here we are at Number Twelve again. You probably didn’t notice, but we’ve completed five full circumnavigations of Muffinshire Lane. Captain Cook himself couldn’t have done better.” Simon pulled at his collar and scuffed his feet on the ground once more. “I suppose I should have mentioned it earlier, but it was too pleasant a conversation to stop walking so soon.”

  “Five! Really?” Penelope exclaimed playfully, for of course she had noticed. “It is a credit to your navigational skills that we did not blow off course.”

  Simon rubbed the back of his neck. “All right, then. I’ll pick you up, say, eleven o’clockish—or would you rather use that fine guidebook of yours to lead you to the West End?”

  “You mean, the Hixby’s?” Penelope sighed in frustration. “A tall man with a green feather on his sleeve tried to steal it on the train on our way to London. The children stopped him just in time. Now I am almost beginning to wish he had stolen it, for it has proven to be of very little use.”

  Again, Penelope stopped herself in the nick of time, for she could easily have added, “Imagine, trying to find my way to the zoo by following the smell of elephants!” But of course that would require quite a bit of explaining.

  She took the guidebook from her purse and showed it to Simon. “See? The only entry that contains any useful information at all is the one about Gallery Seventeen, at the British Museum.”

  “Overuse of Symbolism in Minor Historical Portraits,” he read, thumbing through the pages. “Say, look at that! Eight pages of detailed commentary, hours of operation, admission fees, schedule of holidays, a scale drawing of the museum…” Turning the volume sideways, he added, “And a fold-out map of how to get there, complete with latitude and longitude.”

  He shut the book and handed it back to Penelope. “Impressive. I’d say this Hixby fellow is dead set on getting people to visit Gallery Seventeen.”

  “I share your conclusion, Mr. Harley-Dickinson. But I do find it ironic.” Penelope traced the illustration on the book’s cover with her fingertip; it was a small, pretty white flower. “For he describes Gallery Seventeen as ‘obscure and little trafficked,’ yet the guidebook makes such a to-do about going there, surely it must be overrun with visitors by now. Unless…”

  Much as a well-trained pony might jump over a murky brook and land, dry hooved, in the sun-dappled meadow beyond, Penelope’s mind now made a sudden leap over the muddle. “Mr. Harley-Dickinson, do you happen to know where all the bookstores in London are located?” She was so excited by her flash of insight that she could hardly keep from clapping her hands.

  “You bet I do,” he proudly replied. “Every last one of ’em.”

  Penelope felt the deep satisfaction one can only enjoy when in the company of a kindred spirit. “How marvelous!” she exclaimed. Her mind raced, and her words tumbled out willy-nilly. “The children are much too tired for another outing. I dare not leave them again, and in any case, they have not yet finished their essays on the causes and consequences of the Peloponnesian War.”

  “Athens versus Sparta? I’m not sure I follow—”

  She lowered her voice to a more confidential tone. “If you are willing, after we part I would ask that you go at once and visit as many bookstores as you possibly can. See if you find even one other copy of the Hixby’s Guide to London. Or any other Hixby’s guide, for that matter.”

  “Easy enough.” Simon saluted as if he were already on his way. “But why?”

  “Because I now suspect this,” Penelope said as she laid a hand on the book’s cover, “is the only copy of Hixby’s Lavishly Illustrated Guide to London: Compleat with Historical Reference, Architectural Significance, and Literary Allusions in existence.”

  “Now, that is a fascinating and peculiar notion.” Simon stroked his chin, which he had shaved for the first time that very morning. “But if you’re right, what do you suppose it means?”

  “It means that I, Miss Penelope Lumley, am the singular person whom the author of this volume hopes to lure to that obscure and little-trafficked Gallery Seventeen.” She glanced around to make sure the children could not overhear. “It would also mean that Miss Mortimer knows far more than she has told me—for it was she who sent me the guidebook to begin with.”

  “Then she must know who made it,” Simon exclaimed.

  “Exactly,” Penelope agreed. “And, perhaps, why someone would try to steal it.”

  At that point Beowulf scooted up to show Penelope and Simon a new trick he had invented on the velocipede (he called it “popping a wheelawooo”), and that kept them occupied for another circumnavigation of Muffinshire Lane.

  It also gave Simon an idea. Lacking a horse or cart, Simon suggested that it would greatly speed his efforts to visit every bookstore in London if he rode the velocipede himself. “If the children don’t mind parting with it, of course,” he said, tipping his hat to them.

  The Incorrigibles had no objection to letting Simon take the velocipede. It had been a long day, and now it was time to bathe an
d eat supper and hear the rest of that funny Scottish poem about the mouse, which they liked so much that just thinking about it started all three of them drooling—or possibly it was the idea of a tasty wee mousie that caused the saliva to flow. In any case, they were eager to hear more.

  But Penelope had another concern. “Mr. Harley-Dickinson, I must be frank with you,” she said solemnly. “I do not know to whom the velocipede properly belongs.”

  “Was it lost?”

  Penelope thought of the two loaves of rye bread and half dozen sticky buns. “More likely stolen, I fear.”

  “Better not tell me about it, then. The less I know, the less they can make me confess on the rack.” It took her a moment to realize he was joking.

  “But is it wise to tour London on a stolen velocipede?” she asked worriedly. Make no mistake: The Swanburne Academy for Poor Bright Females was an excellent and highly regarded school, but this was the sort of question that Penelope’s education had utterly failed to address. “For what if you are caught? The officers of the law will surely think that you are the thief.”

  “Contraband, eh?” Simon chuckled and hopped easily onto the seat. “This is getting positively dramatic! Don’t worry, Miss Lumley, I’ll be careful and steer clear of constables. Besides, I’ve a new friend who’s a judge, remember? If that can’t keep a fellow out of the lockup, nothing can.”

  “Good luck, then. Oh, Mr. Harley-Dickinson! Do take a biscuit for the road.” She offered one from the charming little tin the bakery had provided.

  “Custard cream! My favorite. Thanks, Miss Lumley.” He took one and popped it in his mouth. With that, he was off.

  AND SO, JUST AS IT was on the first day they met, (which, of course, had been only a few days before, though it truly seemed much longer), Miss Penelope Lumley and Mr. Simon Harley-Dickinson had bid each other farewell at the steps of Number Twelve Muffinshire Lane. Except this time Penelope knew exactly when she would see Mr. Harley-Dickinson again, and it would be quite soon. The very next day, in fact!

  Not only that, but she felt Simon had proven himself someone whom she could trust and rely upon to help think things through. Despite all the days’ mysteries, riddles, and conundrums, the realization that, in Simon, she had found a true friend, was enough to cheer Penelope to the core. As Agatha Swanburne once said, “When things are looking up, there’s no point in looking elsewhere.”

  And a true friend was a treasure beyond price. This Penelope knew from The New Pony, a lovely, early story that showed how young Edith-Anne Pevington and her new pony colt, Rainbow, first came to understand and love each other, despite a few blunders at the start—for how was Edith-Anne to know that Rainbow much preferred carrots to sugar cubes, and could only stand to have his hooves cleaned if she sang to him while she worked?

  Just thinking about it prompted Penelope to start humming the wordless little sea chantey that Simon had been whistling earlier.

  “Apples, apples, apples.” Cassiopeia sang along as Penelope vigorously shampooed the child’s head. The elephant smell had proved stubborn and required serious scrubbing. The boys had already taken their baths; at the moment they were busy adding pictures of antique Grecian helmets, weaponry, and naval vessels to their journals. Penelope had given up trying to convince them to use the journals as an accurate record of their stay in London; if Nutsawoo believed they had spent the time engaged in sea battles with the Spartan fleet, what harm could it do?

  “Bubble apples, bubble apples!” Cassiopeia gave a little tug to the end of her governess’s hair, which now hung loose around her shoulders, as it was late in the day and Penelope had already taken out the pins.

  “Lumawoo apples, la la la!” Cassiopeia made a soapy mustache of her own hair and Penelope’s, and then blew through the strands until soap bubbles floated lazily through the air. The colors of the two strands of hair really were nearly identical.

  “Close your eyes, dear, that’s a good girl.” Penelope rinsed the soap away with a pitcher of fresh water and wondered: Did the similarity in her hair color and the children’s have anything to do with Miss Mortimer’s urgent request that Penelope use the hair poultice?

  First the Hixby’s Guide, now this! Penelope certainly did not want to feel cross with Miss Mortimer, but she wished her headmistress had been a bit more forthcoming. Perhaps it would be wisest to simply follow her instructions and use the poultice at once.

  Of course, Penelope was going to see Simon the next day. Was it silly that she wanted to look her best? Surely the poultice could wait awhile longer? But then she remembered the way Judge Quinzy had stared at her that afternoon, as she had tucked the loose strands of hair away under her hat. Had he noticed the similarity as well? If so, why would it matter? Such coincidences happened all the time.

  “In any event, I ought not to worry about Simon,” Penelope concluded, for a true friend would not care one way or the other what shade her hair was. Of that she was certain.

  As for Judge Quinzy…perhaps she had imagined him looking at her hair. But it jogged her memory. There had been something about his story that had troubled her; what was it?

  As she squeezed the water out of Cassiopeia’s hair, it came to her. The hairdresser! He said he had come to the house to see Lord and Lady Ashton, but Lady Ashton had been at the hairdresser.

  But Lady Constance had not left the house. And had had no callers, either; Penelope had heard her say as much to Lord Fredrick.

  Why would Judge Quinzy lie about something like that?

  “Cassawoof poem, please,” the dripping girl requested as Penelope lifted her out of the hip bath. “Mr. Burns, please! ‘The best-laid plans of mousawoo…’”

  “I will read you Mr. Burns’s poem shortly,” Penelope said as she wrapped Cassiopeia in a towel. Penelope knew exactly where to find the hair poultice from Miss Mortimer; she had tucked the packet in the back of her dresser drawer earlier, when she first returned to the nursery. “Right now, I have some shampooing of my own to attend to.”

  THE TWELFTH CHAPTER

  Penelope must

  resort to Plan B.

  EVEN WITH THE BRIGHT MORNING sun streaming in her bedchamber window, Penelope’s hair looked dull and drab. “The poultice worked perfectly,” she thought as she ran the brush through once more. “Now I seem more like my old self, anyway. It reminds me of my Swanburne days. And if the children notice the change in my hair, I will simply tell them I have turned apples into blackberries!”

  Clearly, optimism can be a very fine trait, with the power to turn lemons into lemonade, apples into blackberries, and so forth. But just as a scrumptious tarte Philippe will cause the most dreadful tummy ache if eaten in excess, too much optimism can plunge one into the precarious state of mind known as “optoomuchism.”

  Alas, it is a slippery slope. True optimism, as Agatha Swanburne defined it, is the habit of expecting happy endings in a way that keeps one cheerfully working to make them come true. But optoomuchism is optimism taken much, much too far. It puts one at real risk of getting carried away, or even going overboard, especially when at sea. Caught in the throes of optoomuchism, people become convinced that nothing can go wrong. They invest their life savings in harebrained schemes, buy trans-Atlantic passage on “unsinkable” ships named Titanic, and generally fail to recognize when it is time to try Plan B. (Note that in the expression “Plan B,” the letter B does not stand for anything in particular; it merely means that when Plan A falls to pieces and disaster looms, it is wise to have an alternative at the ready.)

  Penelope’s tumble from the velocipede (prompted, as you recall, by her optoomuchstic belief that she could ride blindly through an intersection while sniffing for elephants) had been a painful lesson, and Penelope had already resolved to keep her optimism within reason from that day forward. But old habits die hard. Despite her good intentions, Penelope could not help being cheerful about the lackluster condition of her hair.

  “It is a pity there is no way to tell in advance how
much optimism is the correct amount,” she thought as she pinned her dull, drab locks into a dull, drab bun. “But I fear such judgments can only be made with the gift of hindsight.” In this she was correct. And, like a mail-order snow shovel that gets lost by the post office and finally turns up in July, the gift of hindsight always arrives too late to be of practical use.

  Still, the day was off to a promising start. Simon was on his way, and the children had updated their journals with pictures of elephants, orangutans, and some brave attempts to spell “Peloponnesian.” Alexander had used his wobbly cursive to address all the picture postcards to “Nutsawaoo, Treetops, Ashton Place.” Beowulf had decorated each card with a pen-and-ink drawing of a trireme (which, as you may already know, was the many-oared warship used by the ancient Greeks during the Peloponnesian War), and Cassiopeia had signed them “Love Woo Frum Cass.” Now she was bouncing with eagerness to drop them in the post.

  All in all, it seemed to Penelope that a modest amount of optimism could safely be given free rein. “Perhaps things are looking up,” she thought as she led the children downstairs to wait for Simon, for it was already nearing eleven o’clock. The children would be safe with her, and once they located Madame Ionesco and learned what Simon had discovered on his bookstore excursions, the mysteries posed by Miss Mortimer and the guidebook would doubtless be solved before teatime. The children would find it all highly educational, and Penelope had the pleasant company of Mr. Harley-Dickinson to look forward to.

  Truly, what could go wrong?

  FIRST, SIMON DID NOT show up.

  Eleven o’clock came and went. Then eleven-thirty. Then noon. The children grew restless and began to whimper.