The Interrupted Tale (15 page)

“I promise I will not get lost, as I have walked these grounds a thousand times. I will bring the map with me, just in case. Thank you, Alexander. Good night, children.” With that, Penelope slipped out the door.

The Tenth Chapter
Penelope learns the value of a bird's-eye view.

P
ENELOPE KEPT THE CLOAK WRAPPED
close 'round her and the hood drawn over her head, for she had no wish to converse with anyone who might see her on the path. There was already a voice keeping her company as she walked, and a gravelly, enigmatic voice it was. It lodged in her brain and would not leave, like the catchy tune of a beloved school song.

“. . . And if anything goes amiss, remember . . . you can always bring 'em to the vet. . . . Sure, if there's any trouble, young Westminster'll sort things out. . . .”

Old Timothy was a coachman and not a soothsayer, of course. But something
had
gone amiss, just as he had warned, and now there was trouble indeed. Edward Ashton had the cannibal book, and the very depths of his desire for it made her surer than ever that it must be central to some dark purpose of his. Had he already known it was written in invisible ink? Was that mentioned in Agatha Swanburne's letters as well? And what connection could there possibly be between the Ashtons and the wise old founder of Penelope's alma mater?

It was a tangled maze of mysteries, and Penelope could not seem to find her way out. In such a pickle, Old Timothy's inscrutable advice was better than none, so in search of Dr. Westminster she went. From the kind Swanburne veterinarian she had learned everything she knew about how to soothe frightened animals. His low, cooing voice, slow movements, and gentle demeanor might be just what she needed to help ease her own troubled heart.

She owed him a visit in any case, if only to tell him how well his training techniques had worked on all sorts of unexpected creatures: a runaway ostrich, for example, or a sweet-natured if none too intelligent squirrel, or even three bright and curious children who had had a rather . . .
unusual
upbringing. . . .

“Yet it is strange that Old Timothy mentioned him at all,” she thought as her feet crunched along the graveled path. “And why did he call him ‘young Westminster'?” To Penelope, Dr. Westminster had always seemed neither old nor young, but permanently middle-aged. (Of course, children easily lump anyone over the age of seventeen or so into the category of “grown-up,” with a second category of “old person” reserved for the truly wizened and silver haired. But to grown-ups themselves, the difference between being, say, thirty-two and fifty-six is immense. This has nothing to do with the tricky sevens and eights of the multiplication tables, and all to do with how
tempus
seems to
fugit
ever more swiftly the older one grows, a truth you will doubtless someday learn firsthand.)

She knew all his usual haunts in the barns and fields, but Dr. Westminster's office was in the chicken coop, and that is where she went first. It was no ordinary coop, mind you, for the clever doctor had designed and built it himself. From the outside, it looked like a gingerbread cottage from a storybook, much to the delight of the littlest Swanburne girls. Inside were rows of nesting boxes in which the chickens laid their eggs, and an incubator room with its own woodstove, so the room could be kept warm for baby chicks. Dr. Westminster's book-lined office was in the back, with extra windows for ventilation (for even the cleanest and most well-run chicken coop is bound to smell rather strongly of chicken).

Dr. Westminster was in the middle of a training exercise. The chickens were out of their nesting boxes, lined up in a row. They regarded him with blinking, none-too-intelligent stares.

“All right, my chicks, let's try it again. Right foot, in!”

He demonstrated, stepping forward on the right. The chickens, after a moment of ruffled-feather confusion, did the same.

“Right foot, out!” This time they snapped back into position as a unit.

He clucked approvingly. “Well done, clever hens. Now turn, and shimmy, and shake your tails. Shake 'em all about!”

Dr. Westminster flapped his bent arms like wings, whirled in a circle, and wiggled his bottom as if it were a tail. The chickens followed suit,
buck-buck-buck
ing all the way.

“Perfect, perfect.” He dug into his trouser pockets and came out with fistfuls of grain, which he scattered on the ground. The eager chickens broke formation and pecked hungrily at their well-earned treat.

Penelope had watched from the doorway, unwilling to disturb this remarkable scene. Now she applauded with vigor. “Dr. Westminster, you never cease to amaze me!” she exclaimed, and stepped inside, lifting her cloak high off the ground so as not to sweep the grain away from the birds.

“Dr. Lumley, is that you?” The dear man had always teasingly referred to her as Dr. Lumley, ever since she was a tiny girl and had volunteered to assist him in his work, with her serious face, little piping voice, and knack for taming wild things. After that, she spent every moment that was not dedicated to her schoolwork helping him care for the animals of Swanburne, and the neighboring farms of Heathcote, too. “Allow me to present my colleague, Dr. Lumley,” he would announce to a lame horse or a colicky calf. “Between the two of us, we'll have you fit as a fiddle in no time.”

In spite of her worries she smiled. “Yes, your partner in medicine has returned. But I am a governess these days, and no longer a doctor—at least, not a practicing one.”

He reached out to clasp her in a fond hug. “Well, well,” he said, and seemed too choked up to say more.

Penelope too had a full heart, and the two of them stood there for a moment. “I see you are training the chickens,” she said at last.

Dr. Westminster grinned. “Most people think chickens are simpleminded, but a bit of patient instruction goes a long way, as you well know. This group can perform three different synchronized dance routines in contrasting rhythmic patterns. Let me show you.”

Following his cues, which included subtle hand gestures and some
buck-buck-buck
ing
in pitches high and low, the chickens stepped and bobbed their heads in rhythm. First they scratched out a
ONE-two-three
,
ONE-two-three
beat, as one might do when waltzing. Then they pecked a polka. As a finale, they formed two lines and performed a simple reel. It lacked the energetic skipping and twirling one would find in, say, a schottische, but the birds managed to switch partners and hold their positions as each couple waddled its way to the end of the line.

(To put the chickens' achievement in context, consider that in the whole entire history of the Imperial Russian Ballet, not once has even the greatest prima ballerina ever succeeded in laying a single egg. It is not for lack of trying, either. When a dancer attempts to lay an egg, it is called a
grand plié
. When a chicken attempts to dance, it is simply called a dancing chicken. As Agatha Swanburne once remarked, “Some things just sound better in French.”)

“These dancing chickens are remarkable,” Penelope said, for she knew from personal experience how challenging it was to learn complicated dance steps. “With their well-developed sense of rhythm, these birds could easily learn poetic meter. In time, perhaps you might teach them to scratch out a sonnet.”

“Chickens with a knack for iambic pentameter? Dr. Lumley, I think you're on to something.
Ba-BUCK, ba-BUCK, ba-BUCK, ba-BUCK, ba-BUCK!
” Dr. Westminster's expression altered to one of deep concentration. One eye opened a bit more than was usual, and the other closed halfway; he cocked his head to the side and tugged fiercely at his chin.

It was a peculiar expression, yet one that Penelope found familiar. Impulsively, she said, “Dr. Westminster, there is a fellow at Ashton Place who serves as head coachman. He goes by the name of Old Timothy. I believe he may be an acquaintance of yours?”

Dr. Westminster's eyes darted this way and that. “If he's a coachman, perhaps I've tended to his horses at one time or another,” he said uneasily.

Penelope's curiosity made her press on. “He mentioned you by name, just before I left for Swanburne. He called you ‘young Westminster.' But he did not say how he knew you.”

“Didn't say how, eh?” Dr. Westminster cocked his head to the other side; the opened eye narrowed, and the closed one opened wide. “Since he didn't say, I'd guess he'd prefer to keep it private. I'll respect that decision for now, if you don't mind.”

“Well! That is an enigmatic reply,” Penelope said, hoping to draw him out further.

Dr. Westminster reached into his pockets and busied himself scattering feed on the ground. “There are questions with no answers, and answers with no questions,” he muttered. “And yet sometimes the truth of a thing is as plain as the nose on your face. Or the hair on your head.” He stopped, and looked at her meaningfully. “Dr. Lumley, what do your friends call you?”

Puzzled, she answered, “Penny. Short for Penelope.”

“Mine call me Timmy. Short for Timothy.” He tossed the last of the feed on the ground. “The nickname was given to me as a boy, so people wouldn't get me mixed up with my father.”

Penelope's thoughts raced like a thoroughbred at the Epsom Derby. “So, the enigmatic coachman at Ashton Place is Old Timothy. And Dr. Westminster is also named Timothy, but nicknamed Timmy, to distinguish him from his father, whose name, therefore, must also be—”

“Eureka! Young Westminster!” she cried, understanding. “Old Timothy and Young Timmy! Why, the two of you are father and—”

Buck-buck-buck!

Buck-buck-buck!

All at once, in a blizzard of flying feathers and tasty, furiously beating wings, the chickens rose into the air. This took enormous effort, for although chickens are not, technically speaking, flightless birds, like ostriches or dodos, nor are they known for their ability to easily “lift off,” as we say nowadays. But they did somehow all end up in the rafters.

“Sorry about that,” said Dr. Westminster, blank faced. “I seem to have accidentally given the ‘chickens, up!' command.” He crooked his pinkie finger to demonstrate. “They like a bird's-eye view, you know. Gives them a fresh perspective on things.”

Penelope's heart took a minute to slow. “I did not even know chickens could fly,” she gasped.

“It takes practice and determination. No complaining and no quitting.” He covered his mouth with a hand and whispered, “I'd say it takes pluck, but they hate that word.”

 

D
R
. W
ESTMINSTER WOULD NOT SAY
any more about Old Timothy, and soon they bid each other farewell. It had been a pleasant visit, but this chicken coop (like most others) was a strong-smelling place, and Penelope was grateful to get back into the fresh air.

Once outside, she huddled in her borrowed cloak and stamped her feet against the chill, first the right foot, then the left. Then she laughed. “I am doing the same step as the chickens,” she thought. “What remarkable birds! There they were, dancing and flying, though few would expect that a chicken could do either. Most people underestimate chickens, it seems. It reminds me of something Agatha Swanburne once said: ‘Never underestimate a Swanburne girl, for a Swanburne girl never underestimates herself.'”

She stopped and let her gaze sweep across the field to the buildings beyond, and then up again to where the observatory tower rose above the school, tall and slender, like a fountain pen poised to write across the sky.

“Yes, indeed,” she thought. “I imagine Edward Ashton thinks I have quite given up.” Then she broke into a run.

 

N
O ONE SAW THE CLOAKED
figure make her way through a little-used side entrance to the main building and then up the twisted stairs to the observatory. Here Penelope was quite alone, like a maiden in a tower from some fairy tale of old. It was silent, too, except for the wind that whistled all around.

She gazed out the narrow windows. She did not know what she was looking for, exactly, but if a bird's-eye view could lend a fresh perspective to a chicken, imagine what it might do for an educated young lady with a decent grasp of geography! Still, she did not have much time. The setting sun balanced on the rim of the valley in a fiery red blaze. Soon all would be plunged into shadow.

“Never underestimate a Swanburne girl,” she repeated uncertainly, “for a Swanburne girl never underestimates herself.” Already her faith wavered. To think that some creaky old saying, too long even to stitch onto a pillow, had the power to solve her problems! Even at sixteen, was she nothing more than a child still, believing in the power of magic words?

“Yet some words do matter a great deal—like the unreadable words in the cannibal book.” She paced in a circle inside the tower, to keep herself warm and help her think. “The book must say something terribly important, or else Edward Ashton would not want it so badly. But what? If only I had thought of the invisible milk ink earlier, when I had the book in my own two hands!”