Penelope watched the three of them at their tasks, cheerful and innocent of any wrongdoing. She herself did not feel the children were fully to blame for what had happened. But who was? The squirrel in the ballroom might have been an accident, but taken together with those suspiciously wolfish tableaux and the bizarre behavior of the gentlemen from Lord Fredrick’s club—surely there was more going on here than mere coincidence could explain. Someone (or someones) seemed to have wanted to provoke the children into behaving like wild things.
And what of the children’s insistence that someone was living behind that strange wall in the attic? That was another mystery altogether.
“To make sense of all this, I must use my powers of deduction,” Penelope thought to herself. Aloud she said only, “Watch your knight, Beowulf.”
(Some years later, another rather popular writer who lived for a time in London would create a detective character known for his superb powers of deduction. Penelope had never heard of Sherlock Holmes, of course, for in a fictional sense he had not been born yet, but she was a clever girl and no stranger to logic herself. That is why she realized that her powers of deduction would come in useful when trying to figure things out.)
Calmly and methodically, Penelope considered each of the possible suspects.
Lady Constance? No doubt Lady Constance would prefer the children be sent away to live elsewhere. An outburst of horrendous behavior would certainly help her argue that case to Lord Fredrick. But she had seemed sincere and determined in her ambition to have the party go well. She had argued convincingly with the Thespians that they not present the wolf-themed tableaux. And she was utterly distraught over the damage that had been done to the house. No, Penelope was certain; Lady Constance would rather endure a dozen wild children living in Ashton Place than risk inciting the kind of home wrecking that had transpired. But Penelope wondered once more: What had been in that letter?
Lord Fredrick? Judging from the gentlemen’s remarks, Lord Fredrick had led them to expect a spectacular display of wolflike behavior from the children at the party. Perhaps his pride was at stake—yet the cost of the repairs to the house was bound to be enormous! It did not seem reasonable to incur such an expense merely to impress one’s friends; although Penelope did not know Lord Fredrick well, he did seem to her to be both reasonable and cost-conscious. Moreover, Lord Fredrick had not even attended the party. How could he be the culprit when he was not there?
The Earl of Maytag? Penelope was unsure. His obnoxious remarks about the children seemed entirely in character; the man was obnoxious on every subject. Still, he had expressed that unfortunate wish for the children to prove themselves animals so he could—Penelope went pale to think it—go hunting. “Surely he was joking!” she thought quickly, which was just as quickly followed by the nauseating suspicion that he was not. “The verdict on Maytag,” she concluded grimly, “is not yet in.”
And what of Old Timothy? He had no personal grudge against the children that she knew of, but, after all, he was a very enigmatic coachman. Who knew what had prompted his presence at the window? Still, of all of them Old Timothy seemed the most culpritlike, even if Penelope had no provable reason to think so.
“If only Nutsawoo could speak!” Penelope concluded with a sigh. The poor squirrel was the only creature that might be trusted to give an honest accounting of the events that had led to its untimely arrival at the party. Unfortunately, and despite Cassiopeia’s rather adorable attempts to teach it polite party conversation and socially useful phrases, the squirrel was not talking.
There was a light tapping at the nursery door. Penelope assumed it was one of the serving girls come to take away the breakfast dishes, but it was not.
“Miss Lumley, good morning,” Judge Quinzy said with a half bow. “I am sorry to disturb you, but our search party last night turned up no sign of the children. I merely wanted to inquire for myself whether they had been safely found.”
“Yes, of course,” Penelope felt her cheeks flush. “It seems I had been mistaken. The children had not left the house at all. They were simply—hiding.”
“Like hide-and-go-seek?” Judge Quinzy smiled. “How charming.” His eyes quickly scanned the nursery. His inscrutable expression became even more so at the sight of the two boys playing chess and the tiny girl with a squirrel in her lap.
“I am so sorry, Judge Quinzy,” Penelope said. “I seem to have sent you and the gentlemen on a wild goose chase, in the snow, no less. You must extend my apologies.”
“Ha!” The judge snapped out of his reverie. “Funny you put it that way, Miss Lumley. There is nothing the gentlemen from Lord Fredrick’s club like better than a wild goose chase, and although we did not find any geese last night, we did not come back empty-handed, I assure you. The gentlemen were quite satisfied.” He half bowed once more. “But, forgive me, I am keeping you from your lessons. I am glad to see the children are safe. Good day, Miss Lumley.”
“Good day,” Penelope said, as the judge strode noiselessly away. She closed the nursery door behind him. This time she locked it as well.
“MISS LUMLEY, I AM AFRAID we have a great deal of unpleasantness to discuss. Please have a seat.”
Penelope entered the sitting room, her head held high. She had known this summons would come at some point during the day, and she was only glad she had had the chance to give the children a few final lessons in geometry before Mrs. Clarke had come to fetch her. She was not nervous; in fact, Penelope fully expected Lady Constance to fire her on the spot, so she felt she might as well say what she thought. Hence, she had a lack of fear.
“I realize you must be quite disappointed in the children’s behavior,” Penelope began, as soon as she was settled in her chair. “Remember that I am their governess and any errors they make are more my fault than theirs. Please, Lady Constance: Regardless of what becomes of me, I must insist that you not hold the children responsible for yesterday’s unfortunate—accident.”
“Accident!” Lady Constance clutched the seat of her chair so tightly, her knuckles turned white. “They ruined the party and have nearly destroyed my house! In what way can that be considered an accident?”
“They were provoked,” Penelope said in a cracking voice. “In fact, I believe they may have been provoked on purpose, although for what purpose I cannot say.”
Lady Constance lowered her voice and leaned forward. “It is very odd that you say so, Miss Lumley. Very odd. For that has crossed my mind as well.”
Then, much to Penelope’s surprise, Lady Constance produced a letter from inside her sleeve and handed it to her. It was addressed to Leeds’ Thespians on Demand, to the attention of the Management.
To Whom It May Concern:
It is my understanding that Leeds’ Thespians have been engaged to perform at Ashton Place on Christmas Day.
Stories with wolves and gruesome ends are specifically requested. The enclosed funds should be sufficient to guarantee your cooperation.
Disregard any other instructions you may receive.
Regards,
The letter was signed with a large, flourished A. It was very like the A that appeared on the Ashton letterhead. Penelope had seen it twice before: on the employment contract she had signed upon her arrival at the house, and also on the note Lady Constance had given her with her salary.
Penelope looked up. She was too shocked to do anything but speak bluntly. “Wolves and gruesome ends, and signed with an A! Does this mean it was Lord Fredrick who requested those disturbing tableaux and without your knowledge?”
“I don’t know what it means,” Lady Constance answered tremulously. “And I have not seen Lord Fredrick since lunchtime on Christmas Eve, so I cannot ask him. It is all very mysterious! And very upsetting! And it all started when Fredrick found those awful children in the woods! I do not know what is going on, Miss Lumley, but I do know I cannot bear it any longer.” She snatched the letter back. “I realize this is unpleasant for both of us, but since Fredrick is n
ot here, it must be my decision. Given all that has happened, I have no choice but to—”
There was a kind of crashing, stumbling sound just outside the sitting room. It was followed by a grunt, then a moan, and then more crashing.
“Horrors! Have the children got loose?” Lady Constance clutched at her chair again and looked as if she might scream.
Hanging onto the door to keep himself upright, Lord Fredrick himself half swung, half stumbled into the sitting room.
“Fredrick!” Lady Constance leaped to her feet. “Wherever have you been?”
“Oh, here and there. Merry Christmas, dear! Just got home I’m afraid. Sorry to miss the party and all that. But no great loss when you think of it. Christmas comes every year, that’s lucky, what?” He looked pale and tired, and he held his hand up to his face as if the soft light sifting through the sitting room curtains was blinding him. Then he let go of the door and grabbed the back of a nearby settee for support. Penelope noticed there were scratches on his neck and the backs of his hands.
“What’s going on in here, then?” He squinted in Penelope’s direction. “You look familiar. Blast it all, now I remember. You’re the governess, are you not?”
“For the moment, yes,” Penelope mumbled, staring at her shoes.
Lady Constance’s expression was cool and masklike once more. “She was the governess, Fredrick. In fact, I was just about to fire Miss Lumley when you walked in.”
“Fired! Bad luck, that. It’s not easy to find work these days.” Lord Fredrick yawned widely. “But I say, Constance, if Miss Lumley here goes, who will look after the Incorrigibles?”
Lady Constance wrung her hands; for some reason, it made Penelope think of Nutsawoo. “Fredrick, now that you are home, we have a great deal to discuss. Oh, I have been waiting for your return; it has been simply awful! The Incorrigibles must be sent away. If only you had been here to see what happened last night at the party! Those wretched children are not fit to live among humans. They must be sent to the orphanage, or the workhouse, or back to the woods, I don’t care—”
“They most certainly will not. Finders keepers, what?” He laughed and then winced at the volume of his own chuckle. He clutched at his head and continued speaking, much more softly. “Anyway, I don’t know what you mean, Constance. I heard the party went quite well.”
Lady Constance could barely whisper her reply. “Really? And from what source did you hear this?”
“That new chap at the club, Quinzy. Ran into him leaving just as I was coming in. He said it was jolly good fun. Maytag downed a bear, and Hoover took down a fourteen-point stag. Made me sorry I missed it, to tell you the truth! As for the children, they are mine. I found ’em and I shall keep ’em here at Ashton Place until I’m good and done with ’em. And they’ll need someone to look after them, so you may as well leave this Lumley person exactly where she is. Unless you want to raise them yourself, what?”
Lady Constance was so choked with rage, she could not speak but merely sputtered, Eh-eh-eh-eh.
“That’s settled, then.” Lord Fredrick rubbed his temples gingerly. “Now, if you don’t mind, I need a headache lozenge, and some dyspepsia tablets, and a vinegar compress, nice and cool, please. Would you ring for someone to bring them to me? But not until I leave! Don’t want to risk hearing the bell. That would be agony, what?” He lurched unsteadily to the door.
“Fredrick, dear?” All at once, Lady Constance resumed speaking in her customary sweet tone, as if it were the only voice she possessed. “Do you happen to know anything about a letter?”
“A letter? Why, there’s twenty-six of ’em—which one do you mean?” He chuckled, but silently this time.
“Silly. I mean, did you send a letter to Leeds’ Thespians? Telling them what sort of tableaux to prepare?”
He looked puzzled. “Why on earth would I do that? Thespians! Waste of money if you ask me.” His hand went to his head once more. “Ring for that compress, would you? I’ll be in my study, resting. With any luck I’ll be up and about later, after the lozenge takes effect.”
“You’re not thinking of going to the club, are you?” Lady Constance asked in alarm.
“Not today, dear, no. Not quite up to it, I’m afraid.” But something in his voice made it seem as if he wished he were.
AFTER LORD FREDRICK LEFT, the two young women sat in silence for a moment. Then Lady Constance burst into tears.
Penelope was not without sympathy, but she was not sure what would be the proper way to express it, given that she had just narrowly escaped being fired from her job by the person she now felt obliged to comfort.
“There, there,” she said tentatively. It seemed to do no harm, so she repeated it. “There, there.”
Lady Constance sprang up from her seat and wiped her eyes as she paced around the room. “How can he refuse to realize that the children should be sent away! They are fiendish and untamed! They are entirely inconvenient! They are not even related to me. They are orphans. It is time they took up their rightful place as burdens on society! Any sane person in my position would think so. If you were me, Miss Lumley, I assure you, you would feel exactly the same.”
Penelope felt tempted to point out that, if she were Lady Constance, naturally she would feel the same, for she would no longer be Penelope; therefore, the comparison was lacking in both logic and persuasive oomph. But Lady Constance was on a bit of a tear and kept talking.
“But, no, Fredrick will not hear of it. Finders keepers, that’s all he ever says on the subject. Miss Lumley, it appears I am trapped! I am stuck with the lot of you; that much is clear. We shall have to make the best of it, then.” Her round doll eyes narrowed. “But if my suspicions and yours are correct, and the children were provoked on purpose, that means someone—someone wanted to make a fool of me by sending that letter to the thespians! And releasing that squirrel into the house! And I intend to know who it was.”
“I believe I know,” said Penelope eagerly. “I believe it may have been Old—”
But she stopped, for she did not know, for certain. And was it not true that Old Timothy was the most trusted servant in the household? Surely between her word and his, his would prevail.
Nor was he the only suspect; he was merely one among many, and now this letter provided fresh and strange evidence—but in whose direction did it point? Too, Penelope longed to ask about the strange staircase the children had discovered upstairs, but she did not feel it wise to confess to Lady Constance that they had wandered into the attic without permission.
Further use of her powers of deduction would have to wait. For now it was enough to know that she and the Incorrigibles would remain together at Ashton Place and that Lady Constance might serve as an unlikely ally in the task of solving this puzzle.
“Lady Constance, we are confronted with a mystery,” was what Penelope finally said in answer. “It reminds me of the words of Agatha Swanburne: ‘One can board one’s train only after it arrives at the station. Until then, enjoy your newspaper!’”
“Enjoy your newspaper?” Lady Constance gave a little snort. “What on earth does that mean?”
Then Lady Constance tossed her head and stamped both her feet in impatience. It was a gesture Penelope found endearingly ponylike, and the young governess allowed herself a smile.
“It is never one hundred percent certain what the sayings of Agatha Swanburne mean,” she explained gently, “but my former headmistress, Miss Charlotte Mortimer, always insists that that is part of their value. As for the one about enjoying your newspaper, I would interpret it this way: Sometimes the wisest course of action is to simply wait and see what happens next.”
Her answer gave Lady Constance pause. “Well, it is difficult to argue with that,” she said, after a moment. Then she went to ring for Lord Fredrick’s lozenge.
EPILOGUE
A Letter to Miss Charlotte Mortimer
WITH SO MUCH TO PONDER, and so much tidying up to do (for of course Penelope and the children vo
lunteered to help clean up the dreadful mess that had been made), it was nearly a week before Penelope had organized her thoughts sufficiently to write to Miss Charlotte Mortimer about this first, eventful Christmas at Ashton Place.
She and Cassiopeia were seated in the nursery near the window, where the light was good for writing and Cassiopeia could enjoy the antics of Nutsawoo playing in the branches. Alexander and Beowulf were a little ways away, reenacting the Battle of Hastings with toy soldiers, but they were doing it quietly, and everyone was content.
After wishing her a Happy New Year and inquiring how she liked the journal Penelope had sent as a gift, in quick strokes Penelope told Miss Mortimer about the unsavory tableaux, the unexpected letter, the uninvited squirrel, and the unthinkable hunting expedition. She decided not to mention the mysterious howling from behind the attic wall, at least not for now. The more time passed, the more she doubted she had really heard anything, and ever since the embarrassment of mistaking Old Timothy for the Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come, she had vowed not to let her imagination run so wild in the future.
She concluded her letter with her thoughts on the question of who might have let the squirrel in, and why. Then she added a postscript about how all the fuss had ended happily, for not only had she not been fired from her position and the children sent away, but the whole escapade had led to the addition of dear Nutsawoo to their lives.
You know I believe that all children should have pets if it can possibly be managed, she wrote. I feel it is beneficial to give even the littlest children responsibility for something more helpless and in need of care than themselves. In this way selfishness is avoided, generosity is nurtured, and the heart’s affections are exercised until they can bend and stretch to encompass all the world’s creatures.
The Mysterious Howling Page 16