“So which is it, Miss Lumley?” Judge Quinzy held out his hands. “Lost, abandoned, or stolen?”
“I cannot say for certain where the velocipede came from, Your Honor,” she replied. “I am sorry. I see now that I should not have troubled you with this matter.”
He nodded, as if he had known that would be her conclusion all along.
Baron Hoover chuckled. “My advice is to not get tangled up with the law to begin with. Once you do, it’s a sticky wicket, that’s for sure! Not easy to extricate oneself, har har.”
“Spiderweb,” Beowulf observed, but Alexander shushed him gently.
“Should you ever see Mr. Harley-Dickinson again,” the judge said smoothly, “do tell him I wish him all the best, and trust this incident will serve as a valuable lesson. By the way, are you feeling well, Miss Lumley?” He paused. “Your complexion seems rather pale today. I hope you are not coming down with a cold.”
Penelope adjusted her hat to cover as much of her hair as possible, for she knew the dark hair made her face look sallow by comparison. “I am quite well, I assure you. Good day.”
Desperate to leave, she turned and shepherded the children toward the door. But as she did, Judge Quinzy’s words rang in her head.
…those three remarkable pupils…
Have you tried to discover their origins?
Lost, abandoned, or stolen?…Lost, abandoned, or stolen?
Could the Incorrigibles have been stolen? Not lost in the woods while being neglected by the world’s most careless parents, or abandoned there by the world’s most cruel and unfeeling parents, but actually stolen from what must surely be the world’s most worried and heartbroken parents?
It was such an awful thought she could not prevent herself from exclaiming, “Oh, my!”
Baron Hoover was on his feet. “What is it, my dear?”
If Penelope were to answer honestly, she would say, “I just realized that I had formed a poor opinion of two people whom I have never met, and now I wish to apologize but cannot, because I don’t know who they are.”
But instead, she blurted, “I just remembered that the children have not yet taken their naps. We must be on our way. Good day.”
At this, the Incorrigibles began to protest.
“Not sleepy, Lumawoo!”
“Awake awake awake-ahwoo!”
“No nap! Mew-eezum!” begged Cassiopeia.
“We will discuss it outside, children. This way, please.” As she hurried them out of the billiard room, the door ever so slowly closed behind them. As it did, she overheard:
“Those wolf-children of yours are positively mad.” It was the Earl of Maytag’s voice. “Can’t imagine why you bother with them, Freddy. They must be a dreadful expense to feed. And the noise! All that barking and yapping and ahwooing. Why not give them to the zoo?”
“Finders keepers!” Lord Fredrick crowed. “Let’s play more billiards, shall we?”
“GIVE THE CHILDREN TO THE zoo!” Penelope fumed. What sort of people were they, who could talk in such a callous way? And was it truly possible that the Incorrigibles themselves might be, in a sense, contraband?
It was a spiderweb indeed, and Penelope felt as if she were trapped in one of those frightening dreams that everyone has now and then, in which a miniature Penelope was pinned to the sticky middle of the web, with a giant, black-robed arachnid bearing Judge Quinzy’s face scuttling ever nearer. It was an unpleasant image, to say the least, and she quickly dispelled it by concentrating on her surroundings.
The only other people waiting for the omnibus were a mother with two babies in one of the new wheeled perambulators that could be pushed from behind. The babies were at the age when they could sit up quite well and enjoy the scenery. They were dressed alike and appeared to be twins; their mother entertained them with a variety of rattles, plush toys, nursery rhymes, games of peek-a-boo, and amusing little songs about farm animals. The babies laughed and clapped their chubby hands, while the Incorrigibles watched, mesmerized.
Penelope found it a fascinating scene as well—what a clever idea, making a miniature carriage to push babies in!—but soon realized that it was the mother’s loving, singsong attentions that had so thoroughly captured the Incorrigibles’ attention, just as it had the babies’.
“Never fear, somehow we will figure out who your parents are,” she so dearly wanted to tell them. But she did not, for she would hate to make such a promise and not be able to keep it. Penelope had the unshakable confidence of a Swanburne girl about most things, but when it came to finding missing parents—well, put it this way: She had not had much luck with it in her own life, so far.
And, frankly, since she still needed to rescue Simon and sort out the business of the stolen velocipede, the mystery of the peculiar guidebook, and the case of the missing soothsayer, it seemed best to postpone tackling any further mysteries for the time being. “One conundrum at a time,” she concluded, “and none on an empty stomach.” Or, in the words of Agatha Swanburne: “First, eat.”
At last the omnibus arrived. Alexander and Beowulf were delighted to hold the two babies as Penelope helped the woman lift her carriage aboard. During the ride Cassiopeia entertained the infants with her own doggy-themed version of the farm animal song, in which every animal either barked or howled. The babies found it hilarious.
Penelope watched this odd yet adorable scene unfold. “Sooner or later, we will find out who your parents are. I will make sure of it,” she thought. But aloud she said only, “One more stop until Muffinshire Lane. Alexander, would you please ring the bell?”
THE THIRTEENTH CHAPTER
Lady Constance has one
epiphany after another.
THE PELOPONNESIAN WAR LASTED FOR twenty-seven years, which would be considered a long time nowadays. Rest assured, it was a long time in ancient Greece, too. One might wonder why the Athenians and the Spartans did not sit down over a nice cup of tea and work out their differences, but they did not. Instead, they fought long and hard over questions like which of them had the most naval strength and the superior form of government. There was a six-year peace in the middle (rather like the intermission of a play), but then the fighting started up all over again. It must have been very tedious for all concerned.
Wars, it cannot be said too often, are a dreadful business, and this one was surely no different. But just as optimism has its dark side, the Peloponnesian War was not without its bright spots, at least in terms of literature. It prompted an Athenian general named Thucydides to write a gripping work of history called The History of the Peloponnesian War and (as Alexander observed to Baron Hoover) a clever playwright named Aristophanes to write comic plays that made fun of the generals, including, one supposes, Thucydides.
Now, unless one has been told by one’s governess to write an essay on the subject, the causes and consequences of a war that has been over for thousands of years is unlikely to be a topic of dinner table conversation. Yet Thucydides’s history and Aristophanes’s plays are still enjoyed to this very day, which proves that, when it comes to liking a good story, people have not changed very much at all.
However, the Incorrigibles’ governess had told them to write about the causes and consequences of the Peloponnesian War, so it was all quite fresh in their minds. After lunch they debated the relevant issues with gusto.
“Navy!”
“Trade!”
“Helots!” Helots were what the Spartans called their slaves.
“Democracy versus oligarchy,” Alexander pronounced with confidence.
“Plague-ahwoo,” his sister observed. For it was an outbreak of plague that finally did the Athenians in and forced them to surrender to the Spartans. To make her point clear, Cassiopeia mimed dying a gruesome death from plague; it was marvelously convincing. If done in public, it would no doubt assure anyone of getting a seat on even the most crowded omnibus.
“Plague-ahwoo, that is correct,” Penelope mumbled distractedly, for she was busy thumbing t
hrough a stack of books, searching for some clue as to how to rescue Simon. Where were prisoners kept in this vast, unfeeling city? And how did one secure their escape? A fuller understanding of the workings of the legal system was what she needed, but without access to a law library she had only the stack of novels she had brought from Ashton Place as a reference. Within these books she found tales of bloody revolutions and innocent men falsely accused, all of which seemed to end with nooses and guillotines. As plots went, they were thrilling, but the thought of Simon in such a predicament filled Penelope with dread.
“Dear me! A rollicking story is a marvelous thing, but these are far more exciting than one would ever wish real life to be,” she told herself. “I had best put my books away and consult Mrs. Clarke about the matter. She seemed to have personal experience of bailing someone out of prison. I hope it will not stir painful memories if I ask her advice.”
“Plague-ahwoooo!” Cassiopeia howled mournfully as she choked and gasped on the floor.
At that inconvenient moment, Lady Constance burst into the nursery. “Miss Lumley, what an extraordinary adventure I have had!” she announced. “So extraordinary that I simply must tell someone about it, even if it is only you, and even if I had to walk up several flights of stairs to do it.” She paused for dramatic effect. “Miss Lumley, I believe I am having an epiphany!”
An “epiphany,” in case you have yet to have one, is when someone encounters truths about life with which they were previously unfamiliar, thus sparking an abrupt change of perspective. If the change is unpleasant, it is “a rude awakening.” If enlightening, it is called “having an epiphany.” Neither experience is medically dangerous, though the person in question may find themselves mulling things over for a good while afterward.
“I said, an epiphany!” Lady Constance repeated, now sounding a bit cross. “Don’t you want to know about what?”
“Of course, my lady.” Her mistress’s arrival was unexpected, to say the least, and Penelope found herself flustered and wishing she had put away her recently laundered stockings, which were hung to dry by the window. Also, Cassiopeia was still rolling on the ground, twitching and foaming at the mouth quite brilliantly.
“I am having an epiphany about the poor,” Lady Constance proclaimed, stepping daintily over the writhing child. “Believe it or not, I have spent the day among paupers. A pauper is someone who is exceptionally poor,” she added, by way of explanation to Alexander and Beowulf. They stared at her with fascination, largely because the decorations on her hat included a small stuffed bird. “Not an ordinary poor person, mind you, but someone who has excelled at being destitute.”
At that, Cassiopeia’s eyes rolled back in her head. After a few final death throes, she went limp. The stellar performance briefly distracted the boys’ eyes from the bird, and they politely applauded.
Oblivious, Lady Constance flounced around the tiny room. She put her frilly purse on the bedside table and examined herself in the mirror. “You know, Miss Lumley, one occasionally hears talk about poor people, but all the conversation in the world does nothing to prepare one for the absolute shock of meeting them in the flesh. I hope it is not unladylike for me to say so, but the paupers Baroness Hoover and I visited were filthy to the point of disgrace.” Lady Constance turned and fanned herself. “And their apartments! They were so tiny and depressing! Why they choose to live there is beyond me.”
“It is puzzling, yes,” Penelope murmured, keeping close watch on the boys, whose eyes were again fixed on the bouncing bird. Beowulf had begun to drool, which was never a good sign.
“I told them in the sternest possible terms that they must stop dithering away the hours in those dreadful factories they insist on going to every day, and devote their time to worthier pursuits. Like interior decorating! I am no seamstress, of course, but honestly, how hard could it be to fashion a pretty tablecloth out of some lace? It would lend a touch of badly needed charm to all that squalor. Where on earth is the bellpull?”
“I believe it is by the door, Lady Constance,” Penelope replied, although she was unsure, as she was not in the habit of ringing for servants.
Lady Constance searched and yanked vigorously on a cord, which turned out to be the tieback for the drapes. On her next try she got it right, and the bell echoed anxiously through the house.
She turned back to the mirror and poked at the poor little bird, which had fallen askew. “Here is something else I learned about the poor, Miss Lumley: They do not even bother to dress for dinner. It is really quite appalling. Margaret!” she screeched impatiently.
“Here I am, m’lady!” The pretty young housemaid finally appeared, with her high voice squeaky as a fiddle and her cheeks flushed from running up the stairs double time. “I didn’t expect you’d be in the nursery, my lady. It’s lovely that you take a maternal interest in the children, I must say….” Margaret looked down in alarm. Cassiopeia was still frozen on the floor in plague position, like an actor at the end of tragic play after all the principal characters have killed one another and the last surviving cast member must deliver a stirring monologue summing up what it all means, while his fellow actors lie there covered with fake blood, trying not to giggle.
Lady Constance stepped over Cassiopeia again. “I wish you wouldn’t dawdle so, Margaret! I have been standing here for the better part of a minute. Now draw me a bath, please, and lay out a fresh gown.” Lady Constance sniffed the air. “I have been in the most malodorous surroundings imaginable and feel the need to be thoroughly scrubbed.”
“At once, my lady.” Margaret curtsied and started to dash out to obey, but her kind heart got the better of her. “Is the little girl all right, Miss Lumley?”
Penelope started to tell Margaret how the Athenians lost the Peloponnesian War, but Alexander beat her to the punch.
“Plague,” the boy explained. “Bubonic.”
“Black death,” Beowulf added.
Cassiopeia opened one eye and coughed pathetically. “Plague-ahwooooooooo!” she howled.
Margaret screamed, and a squeaky, piercing, blood-curdling scream it was. Lady Constance screamed as well. “What! No! Heavens! I scarcely survive traipsing through the slums, only to find my own house infected with plague! Eek! Eek!”
“Do not panic!” Penelope cried. “She is only pretending!” The boys yapped in agreement. In the melee, the little bird fell off Lady Constance’s hat and disappeared somewhere in the nursery. Finally Cassiopeia sat up and smiled, proving she was not, in fact, dead from the plague, and everyone settled down.
“Sorry, Miss Lumley,” Margaret said, composing herself. “Didn’t mean to shriek like a banshee! I was startled, is all. It was so lifelike! She’s a talented lass, isn’t she?”
Lady Constance scowled. “Pretending to die of plague! Have you ever heard of such a thing? These children are not quite right, Miss Lumley. Just because my husband has chosen to keep them does not mean they can behave like wild animals in my house.”
“I understand, Lady Constance,” Penelope began to explain, “but the children have been quite swept up in the military history of ancient Greece, and one thing led to another—”
“Gibberish!” declared Lady Constance, whose own education had consisted largely of advanced studies in shopping, flirting, and hair care.
“I beg your pardon,” Alexander said politely. “Your bird.” He tapped his brother on the shoulder. Beowulf meekly opened his mouth and extracted the bird. He held it out to Lady Constance.
“Soggy, sorry,” he apologized.
Lady Constance backed herself to the door in horror. “This is precisely what I mean! Lord Fredrick will hear about this, I warn you! Margaret, I must have a bath at once! Extra hot!”
AFTER LADY CONSTANCE HAD GONE, the stuffed bird was hung by the window to dry, next to the stockings. Penelope decided that a math lesson was just the thing to restore some calm to the nursery, and soon the Incorrigibles were well on their way to mastering how to figure the area of a
triangle. Penelope left them a few practice problems to keep them occupied and then went downstairs to find Mrs. Clarke, to ask her advice about how to spring someone from prison.
But Mrs. Clarke was out. Penelope was surprised to hear it, for Mrs. Clarke ran the household with the iron hand of, well, a Spartan general, and that meant she was nearly always on the premises. Moreover, none of the servants could say where she had gone, or when she might return.
Back up the stairs she trudged. Penelope did not like to admit it, but her store of optimism was fast running out. She had already switched from Plan A to Plan B, but she was not one smidgen closer to rescuing Simon, locating the missing fortune-teller, or cracking the mystery of the Hixby’s Guide. Now even Plan C (in this particular case, the C can be made to stand for Consulting Mrs. Clarke) was not working out. Just like the wee mousie in the poem by Mr. Robert Burns, it seemed as if Penelope’s best-laid plans were being thwarted at every turn.
Penelope could think of only one other person to turn to for help: her former headmistress, Miss Charlotte Mortimer. “But given our recent conversation I expect she will tell me to be a good governess and not worry,” she thought unhappily. “And what secret is she keeping about the Hixby’s Guide? If it is truly a secret, then she is unlikely to tell me, but I suppose I can still write to her and ask.” She did so, and dropped the letter in the tray to be picked up at the next post.
With an hour yet before teatime, their lessons already completed, and Mrs. Clarke nowhere to be found, there was nothing to do but take the children on an educational outing of some sort. But to where? They were still keen to see the theatrical haunts Simon had promised (they felt this way even after Penelope explained that there would be no actual ghosts involved), so Penelope led the Incorrigibles on a walk through the theater district. The children oohed and aahed as they strolled past the marquees and the colorful posters advertising the entertainments within, but the sight simply made Penelope fret all the more about the fate of her playwright friend.
ICAP 2 - The Hidden Gallery Page 13
