ICAP 2 - The Hidden Gallery (4 page)

“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.

I
F 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—”

“I say!” A young man stuck his head out of a window two floors above. “What's all that racket? Is everything all right?”

“Yes,” Penelope called back, but the children were still carrying on in a most frightful way.

“Ahwoooooooooooo!”

“Ahwoooooooooooo!”

“What?” the young man yelled down, louder. “Is someone hurt?”

“We are quite all right, thank you.”

“What? I can't hear you.”

“Ahwoooooooooooo!”

“Ahwoooooooooooo!”

“Ahwoooooooooooo!”

“I'm coming down!” The young man's head disappeared back inside the window. Straightaway there was a great clatter and thumping and the crash of things colliding. From the sound of it, this fellow was taking the stairs two at a time.

“Dear me,” Penelope thought in alarm. “If the gentleman files a complaint about the noise, we may end up gaining the attention of a constable after all, though not in the way I intended.”

He burst out the door of the building and skidded to a stop. At the sight of him, the three Incorrigibles stopped howling and stared.

“Oh!” he exclaimed, taking off his hat. “You're just children. That's all right, then. Sorry to have shouted. Sometimes the local ruffians set dogs to fighting so they can make a profit off the betting. I can't stand to see it, personally. Let the blackguards bash away at one another, if they must! But dogs are a man's best friend.”

Cassiopeia hopped over and licked his hand. Before Penelope could explain and apologize, the fellow grinned and spoke warmly to his new acquaintance.

“You like dogs, too, I see. What's your name?”

“Cassawoof,” she said with pride.

“Nice name! I'm Simon.” He wiped the back of his hand on his jacket before extending it to Penelope. “How do you do, miss? Simon Harley-Dickinson, at your service. I live upstairs.” He jerked his head up toward the window from which he had first made his presence known. “It's a bit downtrodden, don't I know! But that's the life of the starving artist for you.”

“I am Miss Penelope Lumley. How do you do?” Penelope straightened her spine and shook his hand firmly. It was not easy to maintain her composure when so many surprising things kept happening one right after another, but she was a Swanburne girl after all, and manners were manners. “Allow me to introduce Alexander, Beowulf”—the boys bowed—“and you have already met Cassiopeia.”

“Charmed, I'm sure.” The young man shook hands with the boys and winked down at the tiny girl. “Now, what brings you lot down here? This isn't the nicest neighborhood in London, you know. You'd best be on your way home, if you don't mind me telling you what to do.”

“I wish you would tell us what to do, actually.” Penelope felt suddenly near tears. If this amiable fellow
could not help them, she did not know where else to turn. “We are looking for Number Twelve Muffinshire Lane, and we are quite lost. No one has been able to direct us. Do you have any idea where it might be?”

“Muffinshire Lane?” He stroked his chin thoughtfully. “Muffinshire Lane? Doesn't ring a bell, I'm afraid. But don't fret, Miss Lumley. I've a knack for navigation. It's in the blood; the men in my family have been sailors going back generations. Say, do you happen to have a map handy? I bet I can help you sort everything out, if you'll let me have a look.”

After a moment's hesitation (for she had not forgotten that unpleasant incident on the train), she handed him the guidebook. “Thank you so much,” she said, meaning it most sincerely. “Are you a sailor, too?”

“Me? Not a bit. I write plays. I'm a man of the theater. A bard, if you will. Sorry, I know it sounds stuck-up when you say it like that. But it's true. I may be a bit of a genius, in fact; I do feel a gleam of it here and there. Although, to be honest, I've had a hard time getting words on paper lately.” He turned the guidebook over in his hand. “
Hixby's Lavishly Illustrated Guide to London
, eh? That's a new one.”

“I was told it was the best guide to the city,” Penelope confessed sheepishly.

“Never heard of it,” he said, leafing through the pages. “Smashing pictures. Bracingly alpine. Not much help in finding your way about town, though—ah, here's the map. Now let's see about this Muffinshire Lane….”

 

A
FTER APPROXIMATELY ONE QUARTER HOUR
of saying “hmm” and “say” and “well” at least a dozen times each, after which he dashed upstairs to his garret to fetch a rather impressive antique brass sextant, and then another quarter hour waiting for the sun to peek through the smoggy London air so he could get his bearings, this perfectly nice young man named Simon knew precisely how to get to Muffinshire Lane.

To Penelope's great relief, he insisted in escorting her and the children; he said it was more or less on his way, since he was not going anyplace in particular, and he feared they would get turned 'round again completely if he left them to their own devices. As they walked he told amusing stories about life in the theater, which made Penelope fervently wish that she and the children might be able to see a show during their stay in London. She had no idea how to get tickets or what they might cost, but she resolved to look into it at the earliest opportunity.

“Muffinshire Lane,” he announced, all too soon, it
seemed. “But are you sure it's Number Twelve you're looking for?”

“It is, but my heavens! Is this what passes for a town house in London?” Penelope gazed at the magnificent building before her. After living at Ashton Place she was no longer shocked by luxury, but still—Number Twelve was something to see.