ICAP 2 - The Hidden Gallery

by Wood, Maryrose

  “Snacks, hooray!” Cassiopeia announced, showing Penelope the half-eaten cake. Before anyone could explain, the rags spoke.

  “Nice babies. Feed babies.” From the midst of the pile a wide, semitoothless grin emerged, and the Gypsy revealed herself from within the camouflage of her own shawls.

  The carriage lurched and swerved. Simon held on to his hat and said, “Miss Lumley, allow me to present Madame Ionesco. Prognosticator extraordinaire. Although I think you’ve met once before.”

  “How”—bump!—“do you do?” Penelope said, astonished. “I am pleased to be properly introduced to you, madame. Though I must say, this is all rather unexpected.”

  “Is unexpected for me, too,” the fortune-teller confided. “And I see future, so unexpected things very rare.”

  “Madame Ionesco was kind enough to agree to join us after the show, for a modest fee, of course,” Simon explained. “We’d just concluded negotiations when we saw the children run out, and those ridiculous pirates—and then the Ashtons’ driver appeared and offered to drive us all to safety.”

  “I knew wolf babies be at pirate show,” the old woman bragged. “I saw it—here….” She closed her eyes and gestured in the air, indicating the Realm of Mysterioso.

  “Thankawoo for yum-yum Gypsy cakes,” Beowulf said, taking another.

  “You welcome, honey.” Madame Ionesco seemed far better prepared for this adventure than Penelope was. Clearly, prognostication had its advantages.

  “Hey!” It was Old Timothy, yelling over the clatter of galloping hooves. “Before you serve tea and crumpets, would you mind tellin’ me where we’re goin’?” For indeed, the pirates were still chasing them. Some were on horseback, some were on foot, and some—could it be?—were riding velocipedes.

  “Harrrrr!” the pirates yelled, waving their swords.

  “Ahoooooooy! Caw! Caw!” The parrot had finally gotten loose from its tether and was now serving as navigator, flying after the brougham and then swooping back toward the pursuing pirates to show them which way to go.

  Penelope spoke urgently to Simon. “If my understanding of theatrical custom is correct, the interval will soon be over, and the actors will have to return to the theater to perform the second act. We simply must hide until then.”

  “How about my garret? It’s a bit downtrodden to be sure, but well off the beaten path.”

  Penelope frowned. “Off the beaten path is not good enough. We need someplace truly obscure.”

  “Little trafficked,” Madame Ionesco suggested. “More cake, wolf babies?”

  Little trafficked? Could that truly be what the old Gypsy had said? But no matter. Now Penelope knew exactly what to do. She laid a hand on her purse and felt the familiar outline of the Hixby’s Guide within.

  “Take us to the British Museum,” she ordered the coachman. “And hurry!”

  “THE MEW-EEZUM! THE MEW-EEZUM!” THE children were overjoyed. First the theater, and now a trip to the British Museum; surely this had been their most educational day in London yet.

  Old Timothy’s cries of “hep-hep” and “hee-yah!” kept the horses at full tilt. The carriage bounced and rattled along the stony streets, at times so violently it seemed as if the wheels would shatter. At this pace Penelope knew she had only moments to ask the fortune-teller all the questions that had been wheeling through her mind.

  She spoke quickly and low, so the children would not hear. “Madame Ionesco, on the day we first met, you said something to the children. ‘The hunt is on.’ Can you tell me what it means?”

  “Shhhhh!” The Gypsy closed her eyes and made a series of strange gestures with her hands. “There is curse on the wolf babies, and on their kin,” she intoned. “Terrible curse, made long before they were born.”

  “A curse? Madame Ionesco, that’s absurd,” Simon interjected.

  The fortune-teller shrugged. “‘The hunt is on.’ See for yourself.”

  Penelope craned her neck out the window. That there were throngs of rampaging actor pirates pursuing their carriage was thoroughly absurd, yet it seemed thoroughly dangerous, too. The costumes were silly, the accents ridiculous, but the swords were ever so sharp.

  She turned back to the Gypsy. “Madame, I have been told you are a true Soothsayer from Beyond. A Seer Through the Veil. A person who can Glimpse Beyond the Mist.”

  “Thank you, honey.” Madame Ionesco flashed her semitoothless grin. “I do my best.”

  “With all your powers, then—can you remove this curse?”

  Madame Ionesco looked nervous. “If curse had been made by a human person, maybe. But it was not….”

  Penelope felt goose bumps prickle on the back of her neck. “Not human? Then what were they cursed by?”

  In answer, Madame Ionesco threw back her head and howled.

  “Ahwooooooooooo!”

  Beowulf and Cassiopeia joined in merrily.

  “Ahwooooooooooo!”

  “Ahwooooooooooo!”

  “Mew-eezum!” Alexander announced. “Arriving now!”

  The horses whinnied as the carriage rocked to a halt. Penelope tried to thank Old Timothy for his timely rescue, but the old coachman simply tugged at his cap and grumbled, “I’m at your service, miss—yours and the children’s,” which struck Penelope as a meaningful yet enigmatic sort of remark.

  But any further conversation with Old Timothy would have to wait, for as soon as his passengers were out of the carriage he leaped back into his seat, grabbed the reins and the whip, and drove off at once. He was going back to the Drury Lane Theater, for there was no telling what had become of Lady Constance in all the chaos, and she was, after all, his employer.

  With their rescuer gone, Penelope, Simon, Madame Ionesco, and the children were left standing at the entrance to the British Museum.

  “Parthenon,” said Alexander, admiring the building’s design.

  “Nice pediment,” Beowulf observed.

  “Big, big, big, big, big,” said Cassiopeia, counting the row of massive fluted columns that lined the colonnade.

  All three children were quite correct, for the British Museum had recently been given a new entrance that looked like something out of ancient Greece. It would have been a perfect opportunity for a lesson on the relationship between neoclassical and Greek Revival styles of architecture; alas, there was no time. They had eluded the rampaging pirates for the moment, but the theatrically inclined parrot still swooped overhead. With a mocking “Caw! Caw! Ahoooooooy!” it darted back the way it came.

  “That parrot will lead our pursuers here within minutes. We must find Gallery Seventeen at once,” Penelope said as she retrieved the Hixby’s Guide from her purse.

  Simon gazed at the imposing pillars of stone. “Say, Miss Lumley—I hate to mention it, but as it’s a bit late in the evening, the museum is closed.”

  “Have no fear; on the subject of Gallery Seventeen, Mr. Hixby’s instructions are quite thorough.” She found the page and read. “‘After hours, use the hidden entrance.’”

  “Where hidden entrance?” Cassiopeia asked Alexander, who was already fiddling with his compass.

  “I don’t know, Cassawoof. Is hidden.”

  “Tharr!”

  “Harr!”

  “Ahooooooy!” The sound of their pursuers was faint in the distance, and growing closer.

  “May I?” Simon took the Hixby’s Guide and unfolded the map. “If only I had my sextant—what do you think, Alexander?”

  While Simon and the children examined the map, Penelope turned to Madame Ionesco. “I am afraid those sword-wielding thespians will be here any moment. Can you create some sort of diversion? It may buy us the time we need to escape.”

  The fortune-teller chuckled. “I queen of diversion. You watch.”

  Simon and Alexander were clearly getting nowhere; they turned the map ’round and ’round as if they were trying to find the top end of a triangle. “This map is highly detailed, but the hidden entrance does not appear to be on it,” S
imon said in frustration.

  “I told you, is hidden,” Alexander explained with a shrug.

  Suddenly Beowulf let out a sharp bark to get everyone’s attention. “Beowoo idea!” he exclaimed. “Follow the smell of paintings!”

  Penelope and Simon exchanged a look. Beowulf clearly was being optoomuchstic, and yet—

  “It’s an absurd plan, but I have no better one,” Simon said.

  “It is worth a try, at least,” Penelope agreed. “Children, if you please: sniff!”

  The Incorrigibles sniffed. They closed their eyes and sniffed again. One after another, they caught the scent.

  “Oil paints!” Cassiopeia pointed.

  “Turpentine!” Alexander pointed the same way.

  “Ominous Landscapes—tharrr!” Beowulf cried. All three children bolted around the side of the museum.

  “I make distraction! No worries! Save babies!” Madame Ionesco yelled after them. But there was no time to look back, for Penelope and Simon were already chasing after the Incorrigibles.

  SNIFFING AND RUNNING AND THEN sniffing some more, they made it all the way ’round the back of the museum before finding the source of those distinctly artistic aromas: a rather ordinary-looking door tucked behind a hedge. Close inspection revealed that the door was marked with the faded numerals one and seven.

  “This must be the hidden entrance to Gallery Seventeen! Well done, children.” Penelope made a mental note to positively spoil the children with treats when they got home, as a reward for being so clever.

  Simon pulled mightily at the door, which was stuck in the way of a door that was rarely, if ever, used. Beowulf helpfully lubricated the hinges with a bit of drool; after a “heave, ho!” from Simon and a final twist to the knob, the door creaked open.

  “This must be the hidden entrance to Gallery Seventeen!”

  Simon peered inside. “Bit dark in there. Better check the Hixby’s for what to do next. I’ll sneak behind the shrubbery and see how the diversion is working.”

  With a quiet tread born of crossing silently backstage during performances, Simon slipped behind the hedge. Penelope reached for her purse—and nearly panicked. “Who has the Hixby’s Guide?”

  “You have, Lumawoo.”

  “No, I am quite sure I gave it to Alexander—”

  “I have compass only. Ask Beowoo?”

  “Beowulf, check your pockets, please!”

  “Pocket has cake crumbs, charcoal pencil, tuppence. No book.”

  All eyes turned to Cassiopeia. She shrugged. “Sorry. No Hixby’s.”

  Penelope did a quick inhale-exhale to steady herself. “It must have been dropped in all the excitement. Never mind. We found the door to Gallery Seventeen by following the smell of paintings, but inside the museum it will smell like paintings everywhere. We shall have to devise another way to navigate—a Plan B, as it were—eek!”

  But the rustle and crunch of breaking twigs was caused by Simon. He reemerged from the hedge, grinning from ear to ear. “The pirates found us, but Madame Ionesco has thrown them completely off course. She’s holding a séance right there on the museum steps, and promised to raise the spirit of Richard Burbage, the greatest tragic actor of Shakespeare’s day. Acting lessons from beyond the grave! They’re all hooked. Speaking as a bard myself, I wouldn’t mind hearing what Burbage has to say—”

  Penelope glanced at the sky. The parrot circled high above. “I’m afraid there is no time for that. Quick, children—inside!”

  The Incorrigibles obediently (and fearlessly) disappeared into the blackness. Simon hesitated. “Awfully dark in there. What does the Hixby’s say?”

  “I wish I knew,” Penelope replied as she lifted her skirts and stepped in after the children.

  Simon, who was not only a perfectly nice young man, but a brave and loyal one, too, shrugged and followed, and shut the door behind him.

  ONE MIGHT ASSUME THAT ANY entrance (even a hidden one) to a place as splendid as the British Museum would have to be at least a little bit grand. But Penelope, Simon, and the children found themselves in a pitch-dark tunnel that seemed more like the way to a dungeon. It was narrow, damp, and silent, except for the occasional plunk…plunk…plunk of water dripping. The ceiling was so low they had to crawl on all fours; even so, Penelope could not help bumping her head now and then.

  She struggled to think of what advice Agatha Swanburne might have for their current predicament. As far as she knew, the wise old founder had never had to flee actors dressed as pirates by crawling through a dank, dark tunnel into the British Museum after hours.

  “But if she had,” Penelope thought, “no doubt she would have done it bravely and without any grumbling.” So, “Be brave, children,” she said aloud. “I know it is dark, but we shall reach the end soon, I am sure of it.”

  Of course, the Incorrigibles were not at all afraid of the dark, and were perfectly used to crawling on all fours. In fact, they were having a fine old time worming their way through the tunnel. It was their anxious governess whom Penelope was really telling to be brave. For, you see, people of particular pluck are no different than the rest of us. At times they feel afraid, or lonely, or hopeless, just as the less plucky do; they simply happen to excel at keeping their spirits up in a pickle. As Agatha Swanburne said, “No panicking, no complaining, no quitting”—six words to the wise that are well worth learning, and following.

  Simon must have felt a similar need to buck himself up. “We’re almost there, Miss Lumley,” he called encouragingly from somewhere behind. Penelope appreciated the sentiment, of course, but the remark made her rather glad it was too dark to see, for the rear view of her crawling along on hands and knees would have been ungraceful, to say the least.

  “Thank you, Mr. Harley-Dickinson. Oh! Mr. Harley-Dickinson!”

  “What?”

  “Given the perilous circumstances—ow!—I think you might call me Penelope, if you like.”

  “Right-oh! Well! Call me Simon, then.”

  She was just as glad he could not see her blush, and smile.

  IF YOU HAVE EVER HAD the misfortune to be stuck crawling through a pitch-dark tunnel without the option of turning back, with no idea if and when this nerve-racking experience might come to an end, you already know that even five minutes of such an exercise is bound to feel like a very long time indeed.

  Penelope, Simon, and the Incorrigibles crawled heroically along for nearly twice that long, and one can only imagine what an eternity it seemed to them. But there is an old saying (not one of Agatha Swanburne’s, as it turns out, although she would have found it perfectly sensible) that insists that most tunnels do eventually have a light at the end of them, even if that end is far, far away.

  This particular tunnel did not contradict the notion, for eventually the five explorers emerged into what seemed to be a dense, velvety soft thicket. They were still in the dark, but at least they could stand up. And when they pushed through the thicket (which soon revealed itself to be a tangle of heavy velvet drapes), there was not only light, but art.

  Beowulf sniffed deeply. “Oil paints,” he said with satisfaction. On every wall hung Historical Portraits so shameless in their Overuse of Symbolism that any first-year art student could have deduced where they were. Penelope had taken three semesters of art appreciation at the Swanburne Academy, so she had no doubt whatsoever.

  “Gallery Seventeen: Overuse of Symbolism in Minor Historical Portraits,” she announced, stomping the muck from her damp shoes. “We have arrived!”

  Truly, it looked as if no one had ever set foot in this gallery before. A layer of dust filmed the floor, and cobwebs drifted in every corner. There seemed to be no way in or out of the gallery other than that horrible tunnel. But someone, at some point, had hung up all these frankly uninspired paintings. Why bother, if no one was ever going to see them?

  They moved from portrait to portrait; at each one, Simon read aloud from the accompanying plaque. “The Chief General of Bavaria,” he said. “The
Regent of Lichtenstein. The Wazir of Constantinople.” Even through a coat of grime the slapdash quality of the paintings was evident, with their stiff, awkwardly posed figures and dizzying parade of symbols. One could scarcely see past all the crowns, roses, shamrocks, halos, piles of gold, angel wings, laurel leaves, roaring lions—the list went on and on.

  “The Goddess Diana,” Simon read, as they gathered in front of the last, and strangest, painting.

  “Athens and Sparta?” guessed Alexander.

  “In a way. The Greeks called her Artemis, but the Romans called her Diana. See the bow and arrow, the forest in the background, the crescent moon in the sky, the litter of wolf cubs at her feet? It’s Diana, all right,” Simon explained. “Goddess of the hunt, of the forest, and the moon. Protector of children, too.”

  “The Wazir of Constantinople.”

  “Look,” exclaimed Beowulf. “Ominous!”

  “I know it’s gloomy, but don’t be frightened,” said Simon comfortingly. “It’s only a painting, after all.”

  “No, Ominous Landscape. In attic! Same Ominous.” Beowulf sounded completely sure of himself, for he did have a keen eye for art.

  Penelope looked at the canvas: the colors, the brushstrokes, the composition. A shiver of recognition ran down her spine. Except for the presence of Diana in the place of the bloody-fanged wolf, this painting was remarkably similar to the one at Ashton Place.

  “Beowulf is right,” she said, “This is by the same artist who painted a rather disturbing mural in the attic of Ashton Place.”

  “Aaaaaaaaaa,” Cassiopeia moaned.

  Penelope laid a soothing hand on her head. “I know it is an important discovery, but this is no time for howling, dear.”

  “Aaaaaaaaa. Cursive. Look,” the girl said, pointing at the lower right corner of the canvas, where artists often sign their work. Barely visible beneath the dust was the letter A, in an ornate script.