ICAP 2 - The Hidden Gallery Page 3

  When the conductor sounded three deafening, mournful hoots on the train whistle, the children covered their ears and howled even more loudly in protest. “All aboard,” the conductor cried. “This is the London and North West Railway, eleven oh seven train to London, making all local stops. Final destination will be Euston Staaaaayshun!”

  Clutching their second-class train tickets, Penelope helped the children up the steep metal stairs. It was just the four of them; Lady Constance and Lord Fredrick would be driven to London by private coach in a day or so, as soon as Lord Fredrick put his business affairs in order. The servants had gone ahead with the luggage so that they might unpack and prepare the house for the family’s arrival.

  “Metaphor! Metaphor!” Cassiopeia kept shouting as they boarded the train. The child was doubly mistaken, for in the first place she meant matador, and in the second place there was no matador, just a bright red steam locomotive. But in another—one might even say, metaphorical—way, she was perfectly correct, since a train whisks its passengers from here to there in much the same way that a metaphor carries one idea into another (turning a squabble between husband and wife into a bullfight, for example).

  If Penelope had been paying full attention, she might have pointed this out to the children and made a fine lesson from it. But her mind was on a different train ride altogether. “How interesting it is,” she mused as she settled the children into their seats. “Ashton Place felt so strange to me when I first arrived here from my familiar, beloved Swanburne, on a train very much like this one. And now Ashton Place is home, and London is the strange new destination.”

  Then another, related thought occurred to her: What would it be like to see Miss Charlotte Mortimer again? Penelope felt she was scarcely the same person she had been at Swanburne. She was no longer a student; now she was a teacher like Miss Mortimer. She had grown taller and filled out a bit; this she knew from the fit of her clothes.

  “Dear me, I hope she does not ask me to call her Charlotte!” Penelope thought in alarm. “It would be terribly awkward, after thinking of her as Miss Mortimer for all these years. Yet I suppose that is how life goes.” Penelope closed her eyes, for she felt suddenly drowsy. “New things become familiar with time, and familiar things become strange. It is very curious and”—yawn—“tiring to think of.”

  Already the train was having its inevitable nap-inducing effect. The three Incorrigibles were out cold, nestled in a heap on the seat, and Penelope was ready to follow their example. As the train wheels clickity-clacked along, Penelope’s head slowly leaned back against the seat. Her eyelids grew heavy until finally they fluttered closed.

  The copy of Hixby’s Guide began to slip from her loosening grasp. Now it lay in her lap, jostled back and forth with every lurch of the train. From there it would soon fall to the floor with a thud—

  Grrrrrrrrrrr!

  Penelope startled awake to behold a most unexpected scene, in which all three Incorrigibles played prominent roles. Alexander’s teeth were bared to the molars. Beowulf was growling like a mad thing, and Cassiopeia’s jaws were locked on to the sleeve of a man in a long black coat, who was trying unsuccessfully to shake her off.

  “I beeg yer pardon!” the man said heatedly. “Miss, could you call uff your cheeldren? The gurl is aboot to draw blood.” His accent was hard to place.

  “Children, whatever is going on?” Penelope cried.

  “Man steal book,” Alexander said in a fierce, low voice. His eyes were fixed on the intruder. The fellow was tall and rotund, with a misshapen nose and a hat pulled low over his eyes.

  Penelope glanced down at her lap. Her Hixby’s Guide was gone. Frantically she looked around the seat and floor. Then her eyes traveled upward to the man’s arm, still held fast by Cassiopeia’s teeth buried in the coat sleeve. The book dangled between his fingers.

  “I will take that back, thank you,” she said curtly, snatching the book away.

  “It was falling to the floor, miss. I only mint to kitch it and put it on the zeet next to you while you sleeped,” he said in his inscrutable accent. “The flur is so dirty and demp, it would be have been rooned.”

  “Thank you kindly for your trouble.” Out of the corner of her eye Penelope noted that the children were still on high alert. What animal instincts did they have, she wondered, that made them know when danger was present?

  “Is ridikalus book in any case,” the man pressed on. “Full of mistikes and out of deet. If you like, I will geev you my copy of Parson’s Pictorial Pamphlet Depicting the City of London and Environs, Second Edition, and tek this worthless tome off your hends.”

  “A moment ago you were afraid it would be ruined. Now you say it is worthless. I find your arguments somewhat contradictory.” Penelope smiled in a way that was not at all friendly; it was a trick she had learned from Lady Constance but had never before had reason to use. “I thank you again for your trouble. Good day.”

  “Man steal book!”

  “Good day,” Alexander repeated through bared teeth; as a result the phrase, while socially useful, was not very well pronounced.

  “Grrrrrrr day,” said Beowulf, most unpleasantly.

  “Let go of the man’s sleeve, dear,” Penelope instructed. Cassiopeia obeyed with reluctance. There was a small rip and a half-moon-shaped wet spot in the fabric where her mouth had been. Under different, friendlier circumstances Penelope might have offered to have the coat mended, but these circumstances were not those. Penelope drew the children close to her and regarded the man with what she hoped was a stern and fearless gaze.

  The man lingered briefly, as if he would say more. With a parting glance at the Hixby’s Guide—did Penelope imagine it, or was it a longing, greedy, covetous sort of glance?—he left.

  Cassiopeia wiped her mouth on the hem of her dress. A tiny, bright green feather came unstuck from her lips. She held it between two fingers, then blew it into the air. They all watched as the downy tuft wafted hypnotically back and forth, back and forth, until it disappeared under the seat.

  “Yukawoo,” Cassiopeia remarked before curling up next to her brothers once more. “Taste like pillows.”

  The three children quickly drifted back to sleep. Penelope did not. She remained anxiously alert for the rest of the trip, holding tight to her Hixby’s Guide and ready, frankly, to pounce.

  “LONDON, EUSTON STAAAAAAAYSHUN!”

  “Hold hands, children, hold hands!” The passengers stampeded out of the train like a herd of cows that were late for a very important milking appointment. Penelope clutched her carpetbag with one hand and Alexander’s sweaty fingers with the other. Alexander held tightly to Cassiopeia, and Cassiopeia held just as tightly to Beowulf. In this white-knuckled way, the three groggy children and their nervous governess snaked through the crowd, searching for an exit.

  Penelope could not help trying to catch a glimpse of the strange man who had tried to steal her Hixby’s Guide. She did not see him, but in such a large crowd it would have been nearly impossible to find anyone. The thought made her squeeze Alexander’s hand so tightly that he yelped.

  “It was an unpleasant incident, nothing more,” she thought bravely. “I ought not to make too much of it, for pickpockets and rogues are a commonplace in London. We must stay on our toes, that is all.”

  With that settled, Penelope turned her attention to a more immediate concern: finding her way to Number Twelve Muffinshire Lane, which was the address of the house Lord Fredrick had rented. She knew that London was a large, bustling, and confusing city, and that one wrong turn might send them wandering down dark cobblestone streets that dead-ended at smelly slaughterhouses and riverfront establishments of ill repute. However, there was a foldout map in the back of her guidebook, and the children were skilled trackers—at least when in a forest.

  Once the foursome had elbowed their way out of the station, Penelope tried to get her bearings by holding the map open and spinning it ’round until it resembled the maze of streets that crisscrossed
before her. The sidewalks outside Euston Station were even more crowded than the interior of the station had been. Passersby jostled Penelope this way and that, making it difficult to keep the book open to the correct page. Not only that, but the foldout map was so charmingly decorated with pretty alpine meadows, it was impossible to read the street names.

  “Excuse me,” Alexander said pointedly as people kept bumping into them and pushing past, often while making rude remarks. “Pardon me. I beg your pardon.”

  “I quite agree, Alexander,” Penelope said, making a final, futile effort to read the map before putting it away. “There is a distinct lack of good manners on display—yet there is no need to growl quite so loudly, Beowulf. Someone might take it the wrong way.”

  Penelope was still not entirely sure in which direction they needed to go. Herding the Incorrigibles before her, she moved toward the nearest intersection. Omnibuses hurtled down the street at alarming speed, and a line of hansom cabs waited at the curb. The drivers prowled the sidewalk, angling for customers.

  “Need a cab, miss?”

  “Where ya going, miss?’

  “Give ya a lift, miss? Half fare for the children.”

  Penelope thought she might have enough money in her purse to pay for a cab, although she had no idea how much they charged, as she had never taken one before. But the drivers seemed somehow menacing to her, with their fake friendliness and huckstering offers of a ride. Perhaps it was some lingering disquiet from that unpleasant incident on the train; she found herself backing away from the line of hansom cabs and clutching the children even more tightly than before.

  “We shall walk,” Penelope announced to the Incorrigibles. “I am sure it cannot be very far to Muffinshire Lane. And there will be so many interesting sights along the way.”

  At that moment a gusty wind kicked up and nearly blew the four of them in front of a speeding omnibus. Penelope waited until the wind died down before continuing, this time with one hand holding on to her hat. “As Agatha Swanburne once said, ‘Assuming that one is on dry land, the best way to see the sights is on foot. Otherwise, use a canoe.’ Come along, children.”

  Actually, Agatha Swanburne never said any such thing, at least that Penelope knew of. But somehow, pretending that she had made Penelope feel a tiny bit less nervous as she and the Incorrigibles began to navigate their way through the unfamiliar streets.

  THE FOURTH CHAPTER

  A bizarre old woman and a

  perfectly nice young man.

  IF YOU HAVE EVER HAD the misfortune of getting lost in a crowded city, you are no doubt already acquainted with a surprising and little publicized fact: The greater the number of people who might potentially be asked for directions, the more difficult it becomes to get someone to actually stop and help.

  Scientists who study human behavior call it the Who, Me? syndrome. For example, if you should have the truly awful luck to get a sliver of sparerib stuck in your throat while dining alone in a restaurant in which there is only one other customer, your fellow diner, although a total stranger, will almost certainly leap up and start performing the Heimlich maneuver as soon as you make the universal sign for choking. (If in doubt as to what this sign is, please refer to the informative poster on display in the dining area; this is assuming you are still conscious, of course.)

  Whereas, if the same incident takes place in a bustling restaurant full of people, by the time you draw attention to your plight you may have already turned blue and fallen to the floor. At that point you are truly in a pickle, for instead of swift action there will be a lengthy discussion as onlookers try to determine which of them is best qualified to assist. Some will suggest mouth-to-mouth resuscitation, while others will strive to recall episodes of medical television dramas that may or may not be relevant to your case. A few will phone for help; others will panic and require medical assistance themselves; and many, alas, will simply be annoyed that their dinner was interrupted and will tip their waiters ungenerously as a result.

  Knowing this, in the future you might well choose only to dine in unpopular restaurants. Penelope did not have this option. London was crowded, and there was no getting away from it. Each new street she trudged down with her three weary charges in tow seemed more packed with unhelpful people than the one before. After an hour’s aimless wandering she knew that she and the Incorrigibles were lost, but all her attempts to ask for directions went unanswered in the din and rush of the crowd.

  Nearing exhaustion, Penelope pulled the children into a dim doorway. There she hoped to catch her breath and make some sort of plan. As it turned out, the doorway already had an inhabitant: a stooped, ancient woman who blended effortlessly into the shadows.

  Drawing upon her last reserves of pluck, Penelope addressed the woman. “Pardon me, madam. Do you have any idea where Muffinshire Lane is? I believe there are likely to be fancy shops nearby?” Penelope did not know for certain about the fancy shops, but given Lady Constance’s affinity for spending money, she felt it was a safe assumption.

  The woman stayed silent. There was something foreign looking about her, Penelope realized: She was dressed in the manner of a Gypsy fortune-teller, with numerous colorful scarves wrapped around her head and a large and equally colorful shawl wrapped around her broad, hunched shoulders. She wore bangle earrings and rings etched with strange talismans on each of her gnarled fingers. Her deep-set eyes were as dark and shiny as two black olives.

  “I am sorry to have disturbed you, then.” Penelope sounded forlorn. She was tired and cold, and she knew the Incorrigibles must be as well. Worse, she had run out of biscuits. This was a serious concern, for if the children got too hungry she would have a hard time keeping them from stalking the less agile members of the local pigeon population—a messy and unpleasant business she would much prefer to avoid.

  The situation was growing desperate, and in Penelope’s view that meant that desperate measures were called for. She took a deep breath and addressed the Incorrigibles. “Children, I want you to wait right here. We must get some proper directions at once. I am going to search for a constable to help us. It will be faster if I go myself, but you must promise”—and here she looked at them very sternly—“solemnly promise not to move from this doorway.”

  She turned to the old woman. “I hope it is all right with you if I leave the children here—I trust they will not be in your way?” She was still not sure that the woman could understand her.

  But apparently the crone did understand. “No worry, miss. I watch your babies,” she replied in a raspy voice.

  “Thank you.” Penelope heaved a sigh, more of fatigue than relief. “That is very kind of you. I will return as soon as I am able to obtain help. Alexander, you are the eldest—please make sure no one wanders off.”

  With that, Penelope, with some misgivings, to be sure, but not knowing what else to do, left the three Incorrigible children huddled in the doorway.

  “Nice babies,” the old woman said, and smiled broadly. She possessed approximately half the number of teeth that one might expect to see in a person’s mouth. It was not a comforting sight.

  Cassiopeia whimpered, and Beowulf salivated with anxiety. Alexander was just as uneasy as his siblings, but since he had been charged with being responsible, he comforted them the best way he knew how. He grabbed them by the scruff of the neck and gave them a good shake, until they started to yap and nip each other playfully, just as puppies would.

  The Gypsy woman took a long, hard, curious look at each of the children in turn. Abruptly she reached into the many folds of her shawl; out came a deck of large, rectangular cards.

  “Cut,” she ordered, holding the cards out to Alexander.

  “Excuse me?” He cast a nervous look in the direction in which Penelope had disappeared.

  The woman demonstrated how to cut the cards and offered the deck to Alexander again. He did exactly as she had done. She shuffled the deck, turned over the top card, and gasped.

  “Ahwoooooo,�
�� she moaned ominously.

  The children were quite taken aback. Cassiopeia started to howl an anxious reply.

  “Ahwoooooo?”

  But a disapproving pinch from Alexander stopped her. All three Incorrigibles understood that Lumawoo (as they privately called their beloved Miss Lumley) did not approve of them barking and howling in public, if it could be helped.

  “Strange babies,” the woman intoned. “Wolf babies! Be careful!” She tapped the card with her long, crooked index finger. “The hunter is on the loose.” Then she covered the card with her hand and let her eyes roll upward alarmingly, until they nearly disappeared into her skull. “The hunt is on!”

  “The hunt—?” Alexander began, but the woman startled, and cocked her head to listen. She quickly stuffed the cards back in her shawl, out of sight. Then she slunk away, disappearing into the shadows as if she had never been in the doorway at all.

  “The hunt is on!”

  A moment later, Penelope returned. Her step was brisk out of habit, but the news was bad. “There is not a soul in London who can direct us to Muffinshire Lane, it seems,” she announced with false cheer. “Apparently we are staying in a neighborhood so exclusive that no one has ever heard of it. Why, children, whatever is the matter? You look as if you have seen a ghost!”

  At that they could contain themselves no more. They howled, and howled, and howled again, long and loud and mournful, as if the sky were made of nothing but full moons.

  “There, there.” Penelope patted their backs in turn. “Were you afraid? Did that old woman leave you here alone? That will teach me to rely upon strangers to babysit, there, there, now—”