It is not easy to wait patiently for someone who is late. In fact, there are many who would grow deeply angry. They would spend the time preparing themselves to boldly confront the tardy person and “read them the riot act,” an expression that means to scold someone so thoroughly that he or she will feel as if they have been sprayed full blast with a fire hose.
But Penelope had put her trust in Simon, and her faith in people was not so easily swayed. First, she waited. Then, she worried. Then, she had what is nowadays called a brainstorm.
“Contraband!” she shouted abruptly, much to the surprise of the Incorrigibles, who had decided to occupy themselves by building a model of a trireme out of bits of the potted fern that sat in the entry foyer. It was Alexander’s idea, and a clever one, too, for the fern fronds served nicely as the three tiers of oars that jutted from each side of the ship.
“Contrahwoo?” Beowulf asked, looking up from his work. Penelope paced the slippery floor in deep concentration, for her powers of deduction were at full throttle.
“Contraband means goods which have been illegally obtained,” she paused to explain (she was still their governess, after all). “It is the stolen velocipede that has waylaid Mr. Harley-Dickinson, I am certain of it. He must have been stopped by a police officer, for why else would he not be here as planned?”
Thrilled at this dramatic turn of events, the children took up the cry. “Contraband! Contraband!” they whooped. Mrs. Clarke had been upstairs looking for something, but now she waddled down to see what all the ruckus was about.
“Now, now, dearies, don’t tell me you’re playing at minotaurs again! I thought we learned our lesson about that—”
“Not minotaur, matador—never mind—Mrs. Clarke!” Penelope seized the housekeeper by both arms. “Our friend Mr. Harley-Dickinson may have been thrown in ‘the lockup’ for being in possession of stolen property. We must help him!”
Mrs. Clarke clucked and shook her head. “You shouldn’t get mixed up with that sort, Miss Lumley, that’s a bad business all around. Although just hearing the words ‘stolen property’ put me in mind of old Mr. Clarke, rest his soul.” She placed a hand over her heart, and a wave of nostalgia softened her features. “They tossed him in the chokey once a week, in his prime. Disorderly in public was practically his middle name.”
Penelope would have very much liked to hear more about the obviously fascinating, dearly departed Mr. Clarke, but she suspected the tale might not be suitable for children’s ears, and in any case she was in a hurry. “I assure you, Mrs. Clarke, if any charge has been made, it is a false one. And it will be up to us to prove his innocence. But how?”
She concentrated once more. “I know! Lord Fredrick has a friend, Judge Quinzy, whom I am sure can sort things out, for Simon was in his company all day yesterday. Surely there is no better alibi than the word of a judge! Where might we find him?”
“His Honor? He’s a strange duck, isn’t he? Gives me gooseflesh to think of him, somehow.” Mrs. Clarke gave a little shiver, to demonstrate. “You’ll find Judge Quinzy at Lord Fredrick’s club, I know it for a fact. The gentlemen had plans to meet for lunch and a game of billiards.”
“Do you happen to know the address?” Penelope asked, for after her painful lesson of the previous day, she knew it would be optoomuchstic to try to find Lord Fredrick’s club by, say, following the smell of expensive cigars.
“Do I know the address! Who do you think’s been sending over Lord Fredrick’s clean shirts, shaving kits, new spectacles, skin creams, headache lozenges, and whatever else His Lordship demands? In fact, I was just about to have Old Timothy ride over with this.” She waved the book she was holding. “Lord Fredrick’s almanac. He wants it, and he wants it right away. You’d think the great Lord Ashton was a sailor, the way he refers to his almanac all day long,” Mrs. Clarke said with a sigh. “He checks the moon and the tides the way other men check the financial pages. But to each his own, I suppose.”
“The children and I will bring the almanac to Lord Fredrick ourselves.” Penelope practically snatched the volume from Mrs. Clarke. “And Timothy need not trouble himself; we shall take the omnibus.” She turned to the Incorrigibles. “Thank you for your patience while waiting, children—and the trireme is very impressive, I must say! But put it aside for now, for at last it is time to go.”
“Theatrical haunts with Simawoo?” Cassiopeia asked, confused.
“That was Plan A. Now we are switching to Plan B,” Penelope explained. “Perhaps if we can find Simon in prison and obtain his freedom, we can resume Plan A after lunch. Button your coats, please.”
“Don’t lose that almanac,” Mrs. Clarke cautioned, “or Lord Fredrick’ll have my head.”
“We go to prison?” Alexander asked nervously.
“Guillotine?” Beowulf added, no doubt because of Mrs. Clarke’s comment about Lord Fredrick having her head.
“Simawoo no prison!” Cassiopeia insisted. “He perfectly nice!”
Penelope pinned her hat firmly to her dark, dull hair (it was still her old hat, for with all the excitement she had not yet had time to shop for a new one). “You are quite right, Cassiopeia. And, dear me, nobody is going to the guillotine! Come along, everyone. We must speak to Judge Quinzy.”
AT THE SWANBURNE ACADEMY FOR Poor Bright Females, all of the girls were taught to have excellent manners, and Penelope was no exception. She knew perfectly well that there was something not quite right about examining another person’s property without permission. And yet, as she rode the omnibus with the three Incorrigible children seated next to her and Lord Fredrick’s precious almanac in her lap, she found herself deeply curious about the contents of this book. She longed to peek inside the covers, and was finding it difficult to resist doing so.
The children were also interested in the almanac, and peppered her with questions.
“What is almanac?”
“Why a sailor?”
“Why have Mrs. Clarke’s head?” Beowulf made a throat-cutting gesture that was so impressively gruesome, it made his sister squeal with delight.
Before answering, Penelope glanced at the address Mrs. Clarke had written down for her, and craned her head out the window to see where they were. “Three more stops, children. Very well. An almanac is like a detailed calendar in book form that includes many facts about nature. It is the sort of information that a farmer—or a sailor—might find useful,” she explained. “For example, the almanac will predict when the last frost will come and the ground will be ready for planting, when to expect a dry spell or a rainy one, times of sunrise and sunset, ocean tides, phases of the moon, and so on.”
“Moon,” Cassiopeia said approvingly. The children were very fond of moons, though a full one did tend to get them worked up.
“Yes, moon.” Penelope’s desire to teach got the better of her. Impulsively, she flipped open the almanac to the appropriate diagram. “Here, I will show you. These are the phases of the moon—new, crescent, quarter, gibbous, and full—see how it waxes and wanes? And here are all the dates for the year, and…hmm, this is odd.” For Lord Fredrick, or someone, had circled every single date that there would be a full moon, for the whole year.
The children tried to count the circles, until they made themselves dissolve into laughter and had to start over again: “moon, moon, moon, moon, moon…” But it kept them occupied until the omnibus neared their destination.
“Why should Lord Fredrick be so concerned about the full moon?” Penelope wondered. “Perhaps it has to do with his hunting habit, for those would be the brightest nights to go out to the forest—time to stand up, children! This is our stop.”
They alighted directly in front of the address Mrs. Clarke had provided. In terms of grandeur the building fell someplace between the London General Post Office and Buckingham Palace, which is to say it was very grand indeed. A burly doorman stood watch at the entrance; happily, his uniform did not include a single tuft of fur. When Penelope and the children approac
hed, he scowled.
“State your business.”
“I have something to deliver to Lord Fredrick Ashton.” Penelope tried to peer around the doorman but could see nothing; the big fellow loomed too large. “Is he inside?”
“I’ll take it to him, miss.” The doorman held out his beefy hand.
Instinctively she hugged the almanac close. “Thank you, but I have instructions to hand the item to him personally. It is an object of particular importance to Lord Ashton.”
“Moon, moon, moon, moon, moon,” Cassiopeia explained helpfully. Her brothers nodded.
The doorman gave them a curious look. “No offense, but this is the Fox and Hounds Club. It’s a gentlemen’s club. It’s no place for women and children.”
Penelope thought of Simon. In her mind’s eye she saw him locked in a dungeon somewhere. She stood straight as a poker and spoke in her most no-nonsense voice. “I am Lord Ashton’s employee. He requested this volume be brought to him at once, and that is what I intend to do. And these children are his legal wards,” she added, though she was not sure how often Lord Fredrick recalled that the Incorrigibles even existed.
The doorman looked the children over. Alexander and Beowulf bowed, and Cassiopeia curtsied. He frowned.
“Very well. Make it quick, though. Lord Ashton’s party is in the billiard room; it’s just inside and to the left.”
Needless to say, Penelope had never entered a wealthy gentleman’s club before. The dark wood paneling, sparkling chandeliers, and patterned carpets were as luxurious as one would find in any fine house, but there was a subtle, masculine difference in the feeling of the place. From distant rooms she heard men’s voices, gruff and serious, or ringing out with bold laughter. The air carried the scent of pipe tobacco and imported cigars, mixed with the spice of cologne and the saddle smell of expensive leather.
She turned left, as directed, with the children close behind. Now she heard the sharp clack-clack of billiard cues, then the muffled thud as the ball hit the felted rim of the table and ricocheted into the pocket. The door to the billiard room was half open. A group of Lord Fredrick’s friends were gathered around the green-topped table, cues in hand. There was the Earl of Maytag and Baron Hoover, both of whom Penelope remembered all too well from the Ashton Place holiday ball. Judge Quinzy did not appear to be with them.
“Who goes there?” Baron Hoover called, turning to the door. “What’s this? I’m afraid you have taken a wrong turn, miss, quite a wrong turn indeed.” Then he looked again. “Why, it’s that governess person, isn’t it? And aren’t those Ashton’s famous wolf children?”
“Good day, Baron Hoover.” Now all the gentlemen had stopped playing and were looking at Penelope, their expressions a mix of annoyance and curiosity. “I am sorry to disturb your game. The children and I came to deliver this.” She held out the almanac. Lord Fredrick seized it at once.
“My almanac! Blast this thing, I’m always losing it.” He patted it and promptly tucked it in his pocket. To the men, he shrugged and joked, “One must stay a step ahead of the weather. Wouldn’t do to be caught in the rain without a bumbershoot, what?”
“Pardon me.” Penelope spoke quickly, before she lost their attention. “I was told Judge Quinzy would be here. Is he expected?”
“He’s here, all right. He just stepped outside for some air,” the Earl of Maytag snapped, for it was his turn at billiards and he was impatient to resume playing. “What do you want to bother Quinzy about?”
Penelope willed her voice to sound calm. “I am in need of some legal advice.”
“Don’t get caught. That’s all the legal advice anyone needs.” Maytag took his shot and dropped a ball in the side pocket with a neat click.
“Har, har! And possession is nine-tenths of the law,” added Baron Hoover, relighting his pipe.
“In other words, finders keepers! Speaking of which, what is the condition of those Incorrigible pups these days?” Lord Fredrick squinted in the direction of the children, who huddled in the doorway. “Still howling and whatnot?”
“Pups? Don’t be rude, Freddy. At Christmas they were spouting Latin, as I recall. An impressive trick, I must say.” Maytag applied chalk to the tip of his cue. “Tell us, children, what have you been studying lately?’
“I am in need of some legal advice.”
The children stepped forward to answer.
“Peloponnesian War,” mumbled Alexander.
“Bears,” said Beowulf, sounding defiant.
“Moon, moon, moon, moon,” Cassiopeia counted. The child opened her mouth in a way that let Penelope know she was about to let out a howl of anxiety; she clapped her hand over the girl’s face and said, “We have been enjoying the cultural sights of London. Today we hoped to have a tour of the theater district, but I fear our guide may have been detained by the police. If so, it is all a misunderstanding, for he is a perfectly nice young man. That is why I wish to speak to His Honor.”
“Surely you do not mean Mr. Harley-Dickinson?” Judge Quinzy entered the room in three long strides, bearing a snifter of some dark, syrupy liquid. “Is our young playwright in trouble with the law? I am disappointed to hear it. He hardly seemed the type.”
“The theater attracts all sorts of shady characters. Always has,” Baron Hoover observed.
Alexander nodded. “Aristophanes.”
“Gesundheit.” Baron Hoover replied, waving his pipe in the other direction. “Sorry about the smoke; I’ll ring for someone to open a window.”
Alexander was about to explain that Aristophanes was the famous Greek dramatist who wrote satirical plays about the Peloponnesian War, but Penelope spoke first. “As I said, it is a misunderstanding. Do you remember the velocipede I was riding yesterday?”
Judge Quinzy settled himself in a leather club chair and swirled his drink. “It would be hard to forget,” he said wryly, “seeing as how you crashed it into my carriage.”
“I am sorry about that.” Penelope hoped no one noticed her blush. “Mr. Harley-Dickinson used the velocipede to run an errand, but there is a chance it may be stolen property, and now I fear he is being held by the authorities.”
“Why do you think that?”
“Because he did not show up for our appointment this morning.”
“And it did not occur to you that he may have simply found something better to do?”
“No, sir. It did not.”
“I see.” Judge Quinzy looked vaguely amused. “Miss Lumley, I am afraid that legal problems are never as simple as they may first appear. Before I render a verdict, let me consult my colleagues.” He addressed the men at the billiards table. “What say you, gentlemen? A man is found riding a velocipede that turns out to be stolen, but he claims he is not the thief. Opinions?”
The Earl of Maytag did not hesitate. “Caught with stolen property? Hang him! No honest man scoots around on pilfered wheels. He’s obviously guilty of something.”
Lord Ashton shook his head in disagreement. “Finders keepers, I say. A velocipede belongs to the person who’s riding it. Case closed, what?”
Baron Hoover paused to take a shot, which missed, and straightened from the table with a grunt. “Now, Freddy, that’s a bit unfeeling, isn’t it? What about the poor chap who owned the velocipede to begin with? Doesn’t he deserve some justice? Chances are he left it outside a shop and someone rode off on it. Or maybe the ‘thief’ thought it was abandoned and free for the taking. Could’ve been an honest mistake. I say more investigation is required.”
Judge Quinzy leaned back in his chair and steepled his fingers. “You see how difficult the work of a judge is, Miss Lumley? Three men, three different opinions.”
Penelope was flummoxed; to her the situation had seemed quite straightforward, until now. And why had Maytag found it necessary to mention hanging in front of the children? “Your Honor, Mr. Harley-Dickinson was with you yesterday, at the zoo. Surely you would be able to explain to the police that he could not have done anything wrong?”<
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Judge Quinzy shook his head. “Unless we know exactly what time the property was stolen, and from what address, an alibi is irrelevant.”
“But what if we found the true owner of the velocipede, and returned it? Wouldn’t that solve everything?”
“In a city the size of London?” Judge Quinzy smiled. “It would be no more possible to determine the rightful owner of that velocipede than it would be to determine the origins of those three remarkable pupils of yours.”
“Respectfully, I disagree.” Her fear made Penelope bold. “For how can one say something is impossible, if one has not tried?”
For a tense moment, it was as if Penelope and Judge Quinzy were the only two people in the room.
“Have you tried to discover their origins, then? Do tell us what you have learned,” he murmured.
“You mean, the children’s?” she blurted. “Why, no. I was talking about the velocipede…”
“A far more interesting topic, I quite agree,” the Earl of Maytag interjected. “First we must determine: Was the velocipede lost, abandoned, or stolen? In my view it makes all the difference. For if it was lost or abandoned, then I agree with Ashton. Finders keepers.”
“Hear, hear,” Lord Ashton said absently; he was busy thumbing through the almanac.
“But if stolen—hanging’s too good for him. Unless Miss Lumley can point us in the direction of the real thief, of course.”
Penelope thought of the little urchin boy. Perhaps he had stolen the velocipede—she had assumed as much—but she could not know for certain, could she? And with all this talk of hanging, how could she dream of accusing a poor waif of a child, who likely had no one to teach him right from wrong to begin with?
Or perhaps Judge Quinzy was right. Perhaps Simon had simply found something better to do this morning. Even as she considered this, she did not believe it. Call her optoomuchstic, but she did not think Simon would have broken his word.
ICAP 2 - The Hidden Gallery Page 12
