The Interrupted Tale (17 page)

“Well, I got in late, well after dark, and found Dr. Westminster in the chicken coop, just as Timothy said I would. The good doctor settled me in the hayloft for the night. He said I was just in time for cake, too. You don't happen to have any, do you? I'm a bit peckish, to be honest.”

“The CAKE is not until tomorrow—or, later today, if it is past midnight, which I imagine it must be.” Penelope was ready to jump out of her skin. “Simon, I hate to rush you, for your mastery of suspense is beyond compare. But if you could please, please, tell me
: What does the cannibal book say?
I have reason to think that your great-uncle Pudge's diary is far more important than any of us realized.”

“You're right about that. Do you have it with you?”

She blanched. “I did have it! But Edward Ashton took it.”

“You mean Fredrick Ashton, don't you?”

“No, I mean Edward. Dead Edward. The one whom everyone thinks drowned in a tar pit. The one who has changed his appearance and now goes by the name of Judge Quinzy.”

“So Quinzy's dead Edward, eh? Just as Madame Ionesco foretold.” He stroked his chin thoughtfully. “Well, here's what I learned from old Pudge, before we were so rudely interrupted by pirates. Pudge
did
write that diary. He says it tells the tale of everything that happened. The storm at sea, the shipwreck on Ahwoo-Ahwoo, and much more. It's all in there.”

She gave a shiver of horror. “It must have been awful. Cannibals!”

“He said they spent the first night on the island sitting around a campfire on the beach, in the light of the full moon, singing old sea chanteys with the admiral. The admiral had a tuneful voice, apparently. Pudge tried to teach me one of the songs. It was too complicated for me! Lots of rhyming words and harmony parts.”

Penelope was so anxious to hear what happened next that her voice was reduced to a squeak. “And—but—so—what then?”

Simon shrugged. “He wouldn't tell. It's all in the book, he said. ‘Read it for yourself, Simon, lad!' Bit of a joker, that Pudge.”

Penelope thought she might scream with frustration. “But why could he not simply tell you the story?”

“He said he's sworn to secrecy. The only person he'll talk to about it is Admiral Ashton himself. That's who made him swear.”

“But the admiral is long dead.”

Simon nodded. “I told you, his brain's a bit addled. At least it's all in the diary. Except there's one problem . . . well, two problems, I suppose. First, you don't have the book anymore. Second—”

“It is written in invisible ink!” she blurted.

Simon whistled admiringly. “Your cleverness never fails to amaze! How on earth did you know?”

Her face fell. “I wish I were twice as clever. I only realized it after the book had fallen into Edward Ashton's hands. Is it written in milk?”

The word “milk” prompted some mournful
moo
s
from below. Simon lowered his voice to a whisper. “Milk's fine for household secrets, but it washes away at sea. This diary is written in pirates' ink. That's the best invisible ink there is. It's foolproof and waterproof. We pirates use it for treasure maps, secret oaths, and other confidential documents.”

It was odd to hear Simon say “we pirates,” but Penelope supposed she would get used to it in time. “Pirates' ink,” she mused. “Do you know how to read it?”

“Harr, matey, I do!” he said, quite convincingly. “My adventure at sea, though unpleasant in some ways, left me with valuable skills. For one thing, my navigational expertise is twice what it was before. For another, I am now an expert brewer of pirates' ink. It has two parts: the ink itself, and the visibilizer.”

“The what?”

“The visibilizer. It's what you pour on the pages to make the invisible ink visible again. Concocting the ink is easy, but the visibilizer . . . well, that takes talent. And a long list of ingredients, too.”

“Is there any chance that Edward Ashton knows how to make the visibilizer?”

“Not unless he's ever been a sworn member of a pirate's crew. Both recipes are secrets of the pirates' brotherhood. I myself have taken an oath not to reveal them, unless it's to another pirate who's also under oath.” At Penelope's dismayed expression, he added, “Don't worry. I'm allowed to cook up a batch of the visibilizer for personal use, as long as I don't share the recipe with a landlubber. No offense.”

Penelope chewed on a piece of hay, concentrating very hard. “So Quinzy has the cannibal book but cannot read it. And we have the visibilizer, or will, once you prepare it—but no book.” She looked up. “Simon, how accurate is your great-uncle Pudge's memory?”

He shrugged. “I wouldn't trust him for the day's headlines, but the tales of his boyhood seafaring days are clear as a bell.”

Penelope would have shouted “Eureka!” but she did not want to frighten the cows. “Simon, consider this: If the details of Pudge's story are accurate, that means that when they arrived at the island, the admiral did not yet suffer from the curse that plagues the Ashton men during the full moon. For if he had, he would have been howling and barking around the campfire, not singing intricately rhymed sea chanteys in complex harmony parts.”

Simon stroked his chin. “I think I see what you're driving at, Miss L. Something changed on that island. Something happened.”

“Indeed—and it was something so shocking that Pudge could only write about it in invisible ink, and was sworn to secrecy by the admiral, too.” Penelope thought of the unanswered questions surrounding Edward Ashton and the Incorrigible children . . . Agatha Swanburne and her auburn-haired portrait . . . Miss Mortimer and the hair poultice . . . Old Timothy and Dr. Westminster . . . and the Long-Lost Lumleys, too. So many mysteries! Somehow they all seemed inextricably linked. But all she said was, “It would explain the curse on the Ashtons—and perhaps much more, as well.”

The almost-full moon poured its pale, cool light through the window of the hayloft, like fresh milk into a pitcher. It would be light enough to read by, easily. All that would be needed was a book.

“I wonder what happened on Ahwoo-Ahwoo?” Simon said softly, and they both gazed out at the star-studded sky.

“There is only one way to find out.” Her voice was quiet and cool as the moonlight itself. “We must steal Pudge's diary back at once.”

The Eleventh Chapter
Something criminal is planned for the CAKE.

“A S
WANBURNE GIRL MAY BORROW
with permission, and quote with attribution, but she absolutely, positively does not steal.” No doubt Agatha Swanburne said something along those lines at one point or another. Indeed, under normal circumstances, a rule against stealing would be one that all right-thinking people ought to follow. But these could hardly be considered normal circumstances, could they? For, in addition to all the other shockingly out-of-character things Miss Penelope Lumley had done recently—telling half-truths to a person in a position of authority, for example, or walking out of a library without a single book in hand, not one!—never before, in the whole history of the Swanburne Academy for Poor Bright Females, had any Swanburne girl spent the night in a hayloft with a pirate, planning an elaborate theft.

The novelty of her situation was not lost on the plucky young governess. “Well, I suppose if no one has ever done it before, then it is high time someone did,” she told herself, and stuck another piece of hay in her mouth. She and Simon had already spent hours working out the details of their intended crime, and Penelope had chewed on hay the whole time. It focused her mind wonderfully, and she began to understand why Beowulf found gnawing on hard objects so appealing.

Plotting the theft of the diary had also proved enjoyable. However, it was her first attempt at burglary, and she had little to compare the experience with, other than a thoroughly depressing book she had once encountered, years before, when she was not much older than Cassiopeia. It was about a man who steals a loaf of bread and ends up in prison for many years. After his release, he is hounded mercilessly by an unhappy policeman. More bad things happen, tragedy ensues, and nothing ends well, for anyone.

(The literary-minded among you may have already guessed that this dismal tale must have been
Les Misérables
, by Mr. Victor Hugo. That story also involves a man, a loaf of bread, and an unhappy policeman. But in Miss Penelope Lumley's day, Mr. Hugo's masterpiece had not yet been written. The book she was thinking of was actually a children's picture book called
Pierre et la Baguette
, which translates loosely as “Peter and the Loaf of French Bread.” Whether a little French boy named Victor Hugo also read
Pierre et la Baguette
and was inspired to write a similar tale years later, we will never know, but the truth is that grown-up writers cannot help but be influenced by the books they read as children. Someday you, too, may decide to write a novel that touches upon subjects you read about as a young person. Pirates, perhaps. Or dancing chickens. Or even some combination of the two.)

As for dishonest Pierre, with those telltale crumbs down the front of his
chemise
: One would think his grim fate would be enough to put anyone off stealing, but alas,
Pierre et la Baguette
was written in French, and little Penelope could scarcely understand a word. Whatever cautionary value the tale may have had was thus lost, and now here she was, in a hayloft with a pirate, and rather pleased about it, too.

First they devised a way for Simon to reveal the ingredients for the visibilizer without breaking his pirate oath of secrecy. He did this by making an exceedingly long list that was full of red herrings. (A red herring has nothing to do with fish. Rather, it is a false clue, intended to trick would-be solvers of mysteries into shouting “Eureka! I've got it!” when, in fact, they have not.) It was a clever solution, for even if someone found the list, no one but Simon would know which were the real ingredients and which were the fakes, and the recipe would thus remain secret.

Penelope wrote it all down on the back of an empty feedbag, using a pencil stub she found lying in the barn. Most of the items would be easy enough to obtain. However, Simon did specify a rather large quantity of paprika, much more than the Swanburne kitchens were likely to have on hand (paprika not being the sort of spice an English cook would typically stock in bulk).

“It's stretching the bounds of my oath to say so, but the paprika's essential,” he explained when she hesitated. “The visibilizer won't work without it. And I should warn you—once I have all the ingredients, visibilizing the book will take some time. There's a bit of mixing involved, and the book has to simmer for close to an hour. It smells pretty foul, too.”

“The ‘fowl' smell can be concealed by confining our preparations to the chicken coop.” Penelope was unable to resist the pun. “So, let us estimate a quarter of an hour for mixing, and three-quarters of an hour for simmering. Add another half hour to locate and steal the book in the first place, plus travel time. . . .” She added quickly in her head. “That means I will have to keep Edward Ashton thoroughly occupied for one and three-quarter hours.”

Simon whistled. “You'll have your work cut out for you. And how will we find the cannibal book? Edward Ashton might have hidden it anywhere. It'll be like searching for a needle in a . . . well, you know. Say, look at those stars! It's a navigator's dream out there tonight.”

He sounded almost nostalgic and gazed out the hayloft window for a long minute before turning back to Penelope. “My pirate crew were a ruthless, bowlegged lot, but they taught me all a fellow needs to know about thievery. Let me have a crack at stealing it.”

“Simon, I have no doubt that you are an excellent thief, and a dreadful knave, and a rascally rogue as well. But you would be far too conspicuous in an all-girls' school. You could never move about unnoticed.” Especially now, she might have added, after surviving his manly shipboard adventure: He was suntanned and lean muscled, and hummed sea chanteys under his breath in the moonlight. . . .

She pushed these distracting thoughts from her mind. “Besides, you must prepare the visibilizer, for you are the only one who can.”

“All right.” He tugged at that poetic forelock and frowned. “But if I'm cooking the visibilizer, and you're keeping Edward Ashton otherwise engaged, who's going to find the cannibal book?”

“The Incorrigible children will find it,” she said, after a moment.

“How?”

Penelope chewed upon her hay and smiled. “By following the scent of the sea.”

 

T
HEIR SCHEMING COMPLETE
, S
IMON OFFERED
to walk Penelope back to the school. She refused. Even in the dark she knew the way better than he did, and she thought it essential that Simon's presence not be discovered, given their unlawful plans for the day to come.

By feel and by memory, she padded silently along the paths. Already the night was less inky than before, and the earliest of the early birds had taken to the treetops and were chirping their sunrise songs. Soon the people and animals of Heathcote would rise and stir. The day of the CAKE had come at last.

She paused when she reached the side door of the school, and looked up once more at the fading stars. Tonight the moon would be full. That meant that somewhere—locked in his secret attic, perhaps, or outside, stumbling alone through the dark woods that bore his name, and the name of his curséd ancestors, too—Lord Fredrick Ashton would be barking and scratching and baying like one of his own hunting hounds, helpless to stop himself.

“Poor Lord Fredrick! The Howling Elimination Program will have to wait awhile longer,” she thought. Nearby, a rooster crowed, and Penelope stifled a yawn as she slipped unnoticed through the door. “Yet if our plan to visibilize the cannibal book succeeds, I may soon know the true cause of his affliction. I only hope there is a cure—and that he does not fire me before I discover what it is.”

 

“C
AKE
D
AY
! C
AKE
D
AY
! T
HE
best day of the year!” The Incorrigibles chanted at high volume as they marched around Penelope's cot. And then, “Where are your pajamas, Lumawoo?” Cassiopeia asked, frowning. For their governess always scolded them if they fell asleep in their clothes, but there she was, asleep in bed and still wearing her new dress, although it hardly looked new anymore. It was muddy and rumpled and stuck all over with bits of hay. It smelled suspiciously of cow barn, too, although the children were too polite to mention it.

Penelope sat up with a groan. “Good morning,” she croaked. Her eyes felt glued shut; she had to hoist them open by lifting both eyebrows as high as she could. This gave her a look of shocked surprise. When she forced a cheery smile, she took on the appearance of a badly painted marionette.

Three sensitive noses wrinkled in distaste. “Your dress is a mess,” Beowulf said, whereupon his siblings teased him for having written a poem by accident (as you may know, he was quite good at writing them on purpose, too).

“You are right, Beowulf. I ought not to have slept in it.” Penelope yawned widely and stretched. She had meant to take an hour's catnap and be up well before her pupils, but the Incorrigibles had risen much earlier than usual, as children are apt to do on any long-awaited holiday. “You were asleep when I came in. I did not want to wake you by rummaging about for my nightclothes.”

“Why did you come back so late?” Alexander asked, sounding rather stern.

“It was not that late. Mere moments after you three went to bed. I must have just missed Mrs. Apple's bedtime story, by . . .” She winced and pulled a sharp length of hay out of the back of her dress. “By a straw's breadth,” she said, tossing it aside.

At the sound of her name, the history teacher stirred. She too had slept in her clothes; she was sprawled in an armchair, with her feet propped on an ottoman and a blanket draped over her. “Oh, Charlemagne!” Mrs. Apple murmured. Her dreamy smile dissolved into a snore. Penelope whispered to the children that they ought to let Mrs. Apple sleep, but they were wide-awake and much too excited to stay quiet. In the end she had no choice but to bring them along on her morning's errands.

And so, at an hour past dawn on the day of the Celebrate Alumnae Knowledge Exposition, Miss Penelope Lumley found herself in the kitchen of the Swanburne Academy for Poor Bright Females, persuading the cook to make Hungarian goulash for dinner. The Incorrigible children sat happily in the corner, trying to find a lid for every pot.

As it turned out, the cook had once seen a lovely picture postcard of Budapest, and the beauty and blueness of the Danube River had left her curious about Hungarian cuisine ever since. She was most grateful for the goulash recipe and promised to prepare it for the celebratory CAKE dinner that very night.

“I trust you will be able to obtain the paprika in time?” Penelope asked innocently.

“I'll send a few girls to the spice market in Heathcote straightaway,” the cook replied. “Perhaps your pupils would like to go with them? It's full of interesting smells.”

The children's noses twitched in hope, but Penelope shook her head. “My students must stay at Swanburne today, for they have important responsibilities concerning the CAKE. Might I suggest you have the girls purchase twice the specified amount of paprika? This goulash sounds so delicious, you will surely be asked to prepare it again within a fortnight. No sense making another trip to the market.” (Of course, her true intention was to guarantee there was enough paprika on hand to prepare dinner correctly and mix the visibilizer. No sense skimping on the goulash. After all, she was going to have to eat it, too.)

“What important responsibilities?” Alexander asked after they had left the kitchen. The idea of having some pleased him greatly, for he was that sort of child.

“They will be a happy surprise, just as my birthday party was a happy surprise,” Penelope replied. “You shall hear about it all soon enough. Now, our next stop will be—no, not breakfast, for the dining hall is not yet open. First we must go see Miss Mortimer.” She clapped her hands three times,
clap clap clap
, and the children lined up, ready to march. “There has been a small change of plans regarding the CAKE. ”

 

I
T WAS TOO EARLY FOR
Miss Charlotte Mortimer to be in her office. They found her in the Swanburne Apartment, a small suite of rooms on the far side of the school. It was called the Swanburne Apartment because Agatha Swanburne had lived there during her years as headmistress, until Miss Mortimer took her place. (Before becoming headmistress, Miss Mortimer had been a poetry teacher at Swanburne. It was she who had first taught Penelope about iambic pentameter, which the eager girl practiced by writing earnest sonnets in praise of fictional ponies: “O, RAINbow, HOW you PRANCE and FLICK your TAIL,” and so on.)

Miss Mortimer glanced up as they entered. She was in her dressing gown, her fair hair loose around her shoulders. She sat near the French windows that overlooked the gardens. A pot of tea was on the table in front of her; a cup had already been poured, and the early edition of
Heathcote, All Year 'Round (Now Illustrated)
was opened to the puzzle page. Only the quick rise of one delicate eyebrow, which then floated back down slowly, like a downy feather caught in the breeze, revealed her surprise at seeing them.