“BELLS, BELLS, BELLS, BELLS, BELLS, bells, bells.” Mr. Edgar Allan Poe once wrote a poem that contained this line, and many more like it, for the poem is all about the jingling and tinkling, swinging and ringing, tolling, chiming, sobbing, and sighing of the bells. This poem (which is called, unsurprisingly, “The Bells”) would have perfectly described the noisy tintinnabulation that ensued when the Widow Ashton hit the ground, for all the gentlemen simultaneously ran for help. Every bell pull that could be found was rung and rung and rung yet again, to wake the sleeping servants, call for smelling salts, find someone to run for a doctor, and so on.
The insensible widow was carried off to the nearest sofa and made comfortable there, but even after the administration of smelling salts and several stimulating spoonfuls of schnapps, she could not be fully roused. Eyes fluttering, she thrashed her head from side to side and called her husband’s name. “Edward! Tar pit! Edward! Tar pit!” she moaned. When the doctor arrived, the door to that room was closed and her cries could no longer be heard, which was, frankly, a relief to everyone within earshot.
“My work here is done,” Madame Ionesco announced as she slipped off her chair with thud. “I always say, it pays to use a professional. Wolf babies, come see me in the morning. I have some Gypsy cakes for you. Not too early, please.” Then she retired to the Egyptian Room. The ballroom was cleared so that all the weird decorations and dead leaves might be swept up, and the rest of the séance’s attendees—the Baron and Baroness Hoover, the Earl of Maytag, Lord and Lady Ashton, Admiral Faucet, and of course, the man known as Quinzy (who now claimed to be Edward Ashton himself)—gathered in a nearby parlor, for the admiral was livid and demanded that no one go to bed until all had been explained. The children fell asleep as soon as they were settled in a comfortable spot, but Penelope and Simon were not permitted to leave either.
“How peculiar this all is! I wish I had some chocolate to settle my nerves. Can I offer you something to drink, Judge Quinzy?” Lady Constance paused. “Or should I call you Father Ashton?”
“Call him a liar, if you must speak to the man at all.” The admiral pointed his cane accusingly. “This is not what we agreed, sir. You were to speak in the voice of Edward Ashton and give his widow your blessing to marry me. Instead you pretend to be the man himself, risen from the grave!”
“Pretend? Oh, now I am all in a muddle!” Lady Constance exclaimed. “This is better than a show. I wonder what will happen next?”
The baroness sprawled on the divan and yawned. “Don’t tell me you two are in cahoots! How cheeky. Does that mean we can go to bed now? I am quite exhausted; what a dull evening it has been.”
“It not bedtime quite yet, Baroness.” Quinzy, as it seemed he must still be called for the moment, held a candle to his face so he could be seen, for there had been no time to light all the lamps in the room properly. “First, my apologies to you all for the deception. The baroness is correct. Admiral Faucet and I are well acquainted. We had a prior agreement that I would impersonate the ghost of Edward Ashton at the séance. In the excitement of the moment, it seems I became carried away with the role. My apologies. Rest assured, Admiral, I will return your payment in full, with interest.”
The Admiral tugged at his muttonchop whiskers in frustration. “But I planned to marry her; that was the whole point! And now you’ve ruined it.”
Quinzy turned to Simon. “I owe you an apology as well, Simon, for seizing you from behind and tying you up as I did. I trust you are not injured! But as a man of the theater, I’m sure you can understand. After so much planning had gone into Fredrick’s little play, I simply could not allow anyone to spoil it.”
The admiral wheeled on Lord Fredrick. “Play? What play?”
Fredrick looked uncomfortable, but Quinzy smiled. “One with the same plot as yours, Admiral—that I would claim to be Edward Ashton. It was Fredrick’s idea.”
“Fredrick!” Constance clapped her hands in delight. “You had an idea!”
“Yes, yes. But it was only a joke.” Fredrick sounded impatient. “I suppose it was at Mother’s expense, and now that she’s ill I feel a bit remorseful. But I couldn’t stand it anymore, all her keening and whinging about Father. And I think it’s rather stupid that he went and got himself drowned in a tar pit—a ridiculous way to expire, in my opinion. Anyway, when Constance told me about this séance nonsense, I wrote to my friend Quinzy and asked if he’d help play a prank.”
Quinzy shifted the candle to the other side of his face and rubbed at his nose. “Using the stuffed wolf from the study as a prop was my inspiration; that much I will take credit for.”
Lord Fredrick chortled. “Masterful bit of howling there, Quinzy. You really had me going! I thought there was a wolf in the house for sure. Lucky I didn’t start shooting, what? Poor Mother, though. I never dreamed she’d fall for it. Quinzy looks nothing like Father; I’ve spent enough time staring at that gloomy portrait in my study to know that. How could she be so blind?”
Penelope found this an ironic remark, coming from Lord Fredrick, but it was hardly her place to say so.
The admiral sputtered in fury. “All my hopes, dashed—for a prank!”
The Earl of Maytag fixed himself a pipe. “One schemer has been outschemed by another, it appears. Sounds like justice to me. But let us not forget: This young rogue needs to account for himself, too.” He gestured at Simon. “What were you up to, sir? How did you come to be at the séance, and what mischief did you hope to accomplish there?”
“I can explain that,” said Penelope quickly. “Simon was here at my request—and for good reason, too—”
The baron held up a hand. “Let him speak for himself, Miss Lumley. And make sure you tell the truth, young fellow. You are in another man’s house, uninvited. There might be legal consequences, if your explanation rings false.”
Simon shoved his hands in his pockets. “Well, first of all, let me congratulate you all on the superb plot twists! I’ll try to add mine to the mix without getting them hopelessly tangled up.” He glanced at Penelope, who nodded her permission to confess. “Believe it or not, I also was here to speak in the voice of Edward Ashton, except I was supposed to tell the widow not to marry the admiral. I would have, too, if I hadn’t crossed paths with him.” He jerked his head at Quinzy. “I climbed in through the window and slipped into the shadows of the ballroom, but once I did, I saw the wolf there in the dark. I had no idea it was stuffed! I should have been frightened, I suppose, but I have a knack with animals, plus there was a bit of sandwich left over from luncheon in my pocket. Offering a tasty treat never fails to get you on the good side of most creatures, I find. I tiptoed over and tried to make friends. By the time I realized the poor thing had already met his maker, and the taxidermist, too, hizzoner, or whoever he is, had gotten the better of me. I was trussed up like a Christmas goose before you could say jackrabbit.”
The admiral spoke threateningly. “And you put him up to it, governess? To prevent me from marrying Hortense?”
Penelope stood. “I did. But only because I know you intended to squander the Widow Ashton’s fortune on your ill-conceived business plans.”
“Is this true, Faucet?” Lord Fredrick thundered. “For I’ll not have any of that, if you please. Mother’s personal affairs are her own, but the Ashton estate is very much my concern.”
“Yes, it’s true. But since my plan has been ruined, no harm has been done, and I will take my leave. I would have made a fortune, too. And so would my investors—but perhaps they were playing a prank as well.” He shot a withering glance at Quinzy. “No need to throw me out, Ashton; I’ll be gone by morning, I assure you. Give your mother my regards, if you like. But I doubt she’ll even notice I’m gone, now that she thinks her beloved dead Edward is back in the picture. Good luck sorting that out.”
With that, the admiral left. Everyone sat in silence, trying to comprehend what had happened—all except the baroness, who was snoring gently from the divan, and the Incorrigible children, who lay in a heap by the fire like a litter of sleeping puppies.
“Do you know what would have been terribly amusing?” said Lady Constance in a dreamy voice. “If, in the middle of it all, the ghost of Edward Ashton really had shown up to speak for himself? Oh, I wish he had! That would have been wonderfully spooky. But it seems Madame Ionesco is a fraud after all.”
“On the other hand, maybe she was right,” said Simon brightly. “Perhaps the man isn’t really dead. After all, the body was never found.”
Tap. Tap-tap. Tap-tap-tap. Tap-tap-tap-tap.
The noise at the door startled all who were awake, but it was only the doctor, looking pale and rumpled, as befits a man who was called to work in the middle of the night. “Is Lord Fredrick Ashton here?” he asked.
“I am,” Lord Fredrick rose. “How is Mother?”
“Alive, thank goodness. But not out of danger.” The doctor cleared his throat. “My lord, your mother has had a terrible shock. She seems to think her dead husband is alive again.”
“Yes, I’m well aware. It was all a misunderstanding. We’ll straighten things out tomorrow.”
“No, you will not—not if you want her to live. However this ‘misunderstanding’ came about, you must carry on as if it were true. The stress of finding out otherwise would be too much for her.”
Lord Fredrick began to chuckle, but the look on the doctor’s face revealed that it was no joke. “What—do you mean we ought to pretend that Quinzy really is my father? That’s ridiculous. Mother will see through it soon enough anyway. Unless we take away her glasses, of course!”
“Tell her he’s gone on a trip, if you have to keep them apart. But as her doctor, I assure you: She will not survive another shock like that.” The doctor bowed and took his leave.
“Well, I don’t envy you, Freddie,” remarked the Earl of Maytag, after a pause. “You’ve got yourself in quite a pickle now.”
“Quinzy’s in a pickle as well. I’m afraid you’re stuck playing the part, old chap.” Lord Fredrick slapped him jovially on the back. “Pity you don’t look more like Father; we might have had some fun with it. Although you are about the right age, what? And where are your glasses? Don’t think I’ve ever seen you without them before. Did you lose them in the dark?”
“I suppose I did.” Again Quinzy’s hand flew to his large and oddly formless nose, which, to Penelope’s bleary eyes, seemed to be changing shape in the candlelight, and might have even slipped sideways a bit when Lord Fredrick slapped him on the back. “Given your mother’s fragile condition, it seems I should do as the doctor suggested and leave on some pretense before our ruse is discovered. I will write a note to Hortense—to your mother, I mean—explaining my sudden departure. I shall do it right now, in fact. Good night.” Shielding his face with his hand, he left.
SIMON HELPED PENELOPE CARRY THE children up to the nursery and put them to bed. It was too dark to give him a proper tour of the house, but he whistled in appreciation at the sheer size of it. Once the children were tucked in, he yawned and looked out the nursery windows. “Nice elm out there! Say, it’s almost dawn; look how the light is changing. Wouldn’t it be fun to take a walk and see the sunrise?”
Almost dawn—Penelope’s hand flew to her mouth. “It would. Simon, I must find the admiral before he leaves. There is something I need to ask him. Will you escort me to the POEHO, posthaste? I have no doubt that that is where we will find him, for that is where all his business papers are, and I know he will not leave Ashton Place without them.”
Simon had no way of knowing what a POEHO was, but he was game for an adventure as always, and Penelope explained the acronym along the way. They found Admiral Faucet just as she predicted, furiously packing up the last of his architectural drawings for POEs and PIEs, his recipe for SPOTs, his plan for a chain of FOPS (that stood for Faucet’s Ostrich Premium Steakhouse), and the like. Their arrival only inflamed his anger.
“Why should I speak to you, governess? You plotted against me.”
“I do not deny it. But if you must be angry, be angry at that man called Quinzy. He is the one who ruined your scheme in the end.”
Simon stuck out a hand. “That’s right, Admiral. Whatever plot we might have cooked up never came to pass, so no harm done. Let’s part on peaceful terms. As one adventurer to another.”
Warily, the admiral shook his hand. “And how are you an adventurer, laddybuck? You hardly look old enough to cross a busy street, never mind Parts Unknown.”
“It’s in my blood,” Simon said proudly. “I come from a long line of sailors. Unmapped seas and the briny deep are practically my middle names.”
This seemed to put the admiral more at ease. Penelope seized the opportunity to ask, “As I said, it is the man called Quinzy who foiled your plans, not us. Will you tell me how you came to know him to begin with?”
The admiral scowled. “No reason not to, I suppose. This Quinzy fellow was my principal investor in the ostrich-racing business. He didn’t put much money in to start, but he promised more once I got off the ground, and he coached me all along the way. He was the one who suggested I join the croquet club to meet rich widows—‘the readiest source of capital for a dashing gent like you,’ he said. The flatterer! Croquet’s a bore, but he was right about the widows. Once I met Hortense, he urged me to woo her and then convince her to take me home to Ashton Place, so I could launch my business here, in England. With my ideas, plus her money and society connections, I couldn’t fail. I had no idea he was a friend of the Ashtons; he never said so, although I should have guessed. He seemed to know all about them, and those wolf children, too.”
Done gathering his plans, he closed his satchel. “Double-crosser! I thought he was a businessman looking to make a profit, like me. You should have seen how excited he was at the notion of putting the children in a PIE. That was the most profitable idea I’ve ever had! But it seems there’s something else he wants more than money. What, I don’t know.”
Penelope’s mind raced. All along she had believed the admiral to be a danger to the children, and he was—but he was simply being used by Quinzy. Why? Why had Quinzy gone to so much trouble to bring this fortune hunter and his ostrich to Ashton Place? She thought of the children racing on wolfback through the forest, with Lord Fredrick and his hounds in pursuit.
The hunt is on…. Madame Ionesco’s warning came back to her like a voice from some invisible dimension. This was the third time since coming to live at Ashton Place that the children had been forced to flee a wild armed mob. The first was at the Christmas ball, when the gentlemen set up a late-night hunting party to find the presumably missing Incorrigibles (luckily the children were hiding in the house all along, thanks to Nutsawoo, who had cleverly led them upstairs to a secret attic). The second time was in London, at the disastrous opening night of Pirates on Holiday. And now the third: the Bertha Derby, for want of a better name for it. If not for Old Timothy leading the hounds astray until she and the children had nearly reached the house, they would have been at the mercy of Lord Fredrick’s wild shots.
“Yes, the hunt is on,” she thought to herself. “But why?” She turned to Admiral Faucet. “One more thing, Admiral. Did you ever discover how Bertha got loose to begin with?”
“A funny business, that. The latch on the cage wasn’t damaged at all. It’d simply been opened, and I know I closed it up properly.” He shrugged. “Someone must have let her out.”
IT WAS TOO LATE FOR Simon to travel back to the farmhouse to sleep, so he bunked with Jasper in the servants’ quarters, where he was able to get an hour or two of rest, at least. Penelope scarcely slept at all, for her mind was whirring with all that had happened, and she wondered how all the pieces of this strange puzzle might fit together. Eventually she drifted off out of sheer exhaustion, and did not wake again until Margaret tiptoed into her bedchamber with a jug of fresh water for the washbasin. Quinzy was already gone from Ashton Place, Margaret told her, and the admiral was, too.
As planned, Penelope, Simon, and the children met Madame Ionesco in the Egyptian Room for a late breakfast of Gypsy cakes and tea. The cakes had been carried from London and were a bit crushed, but even in pieces they were delicious, and the crumbs would make excellent treats for Nutsawoo, not to mention the pigeons, warblers, nuthatches, and other creatures that were likely to come by the nursery windows later on for a taste.
The children found the cheetah statues amusing and busied themselves doing math problems with the spots. Madame Ionesco was still aglow with pride about her ability to summon Edward Ashton back from the dead. Penelope did not have the heart to tell her that it had all been a trick, but she and Simon exchanged private, knowing looks. “I’ve outdone myself this time,” the soothsayer crowed. “Never had one actually come marching through the Veil before! Wait’ll this story gets around. I’ll have to double my price.”
Tap. Tap-tap. Tap-tap-tap. Tap-tap-tap-tap.
“Who’s going to turn up next—Cleopatra?” the Gypsy merrily and rhetorically cried. But it was not the ruler of all Egypt, nor any other long-dead person knocking on the door. It was the Widow Ashton, looking very much alive. There was color in her cheeks and a serene expression on her face. She had shed her mourning dress and wore an attractive powder-blue gown. Instead of a black veiled cap, a sprig of fresh flowers was tucked into her hair. The sparkle in her eyes made her seem ten years younger than before.
“Try some Gypsy cake?” Alexander offered politely.
“Sorry. Only crumbs.” Beowulf sounded apologetic, but held out the plate.
“Yum yum crumbs!” Cassiopeia insisted, dribbling some into her mouth.
“No, thank you, children. I do not mean to interrupt your breakfast. I simply came to offer my thanks to Madame Ionesco.” She turned to the fortune-teller with shining eyes. “Once I finally regained my senses, all I could do was think: What if I had remarried, only to discover later that Edward was still alive? It would have been a tragedy beyond imagining. I am so grateful, dear soothsayer! You have saved me from a gruesome fate, indeed.”
Madame Ionesco grinned her semitoothless grin. “I’m glad you’re happy, honey. I have to be honest; I was worried. Crossing the Veil is not done so often. I was afraid that husband of yours might evaporate.”
“He has, in a way.” The Widow Ashton held up a letter. “He is already gone; he took his leave early this morning, before I could see him again. But he left this letter for me. In it he tells me things I have longed to hear for many a moon. Finally, my heart is at peace. My Edward is alive—and someday, I know, he will return.”
Gently, Penelope asked, “Forgive me, my lady, but are you certain it was your husband? He appeared so briefly, and the room was so dim….”
“There is no doubt in my mind.” The widow smiled and pressed the letter to her heart. “In these pages, he says things that only my Edward would know. And I would recognize his eyes anywhere. That is why I fainted last night when he suddenly appeared. Oh, to look into his eyes once more! Madame Ionesco, for that alone, I can never thank you enough.”
“Don’t worry about it, honey.” Madame Ionesco patted the widow’s hand. “But take my advice: Leave the prognosticating to professionals. What the future holds is anybody’s guess. Even if your husband does come back, he may not be the same Edward who left. People change, darling. People change.”
Penelope and Simon glanced at each other. Did Madame Ionesco know more than she was letting on?
The widow just smiled. “I’m sure you are wise, Madame. But I prefer to live in hope. The day will come when he finally appears at the door. What a happy reunion that will be!”
“Maybe happy, maybe not. Keep an open mind! You know what they say, Lady No-Longer-Widow. No matter how big the egg, don’t count your ostriches before they hatch, eh?”
Penelope gasped. “If I am not mistaken, Agatha Swanburne once uttered the very same words, but it was certainly not one of her more popular sayings. Wherever did you hear it?”
Madame Ionesco rose from the table. “During the séance. Remember when I said I was getting a message from someone long dead? Whose name starts with the letter A?”
“That was it?”
“That was it.” Idly she tapped the obelisk clock with the handle of her teaspoon. There was a soft whirr as the hands of the ancient clock spun ’round and ’round; they did not stop until they told the exact right time (which was quarter past ten, to be precise).
Tick-tock, tick-tock, tick-tock, said the clock, as if it had been running perfectly all along.
The fortune-teller licked the spoon and dropped it into her purse. “Interesting woman, that Agatha Swanburne. Will you look at the time! Better call the carriage for me now, darlings. I have a train to catch.”
SIMON HAD A TRAIN TO catch as well. “Wish I could stay longer, but I received some urgent news about my great-uncle Pudge just before I left London. He’s not in good health, and he’s been asking for me. I’ll ride with Madame to the station and catch the train in the other direction.”
As Penelope already knew, Simon’s great-uncle Pudge was very old and had been a seafarer in his youth; now he lived in a home for old sailors in the city of Brighton, near the sea. “I am sure he will appreciate the visit,” Penelope said warmly, but in truth she was sorry that Simon had to leave so soon; she felt there was something important she had forgotten to tell him in all the excitement, but she could not think what it was. At her request, Old Timothy readied the big landau carriage and took them all for a ride to Ashton Station, so that she might spend at least a little more time with her friend. But with Madame Ionesco snoring in the opposite seat, and the children climbing over them and pointing at the scenery on either side of the road, all she and Simon could do was sit in silence and smile shyly at each other now and then.
Once at the station they walked Madame Ionesco to the platform. Simon lifted the fortune-teller’s bag onto the London-bound train, and Penelope finally worked up the courage to pose the question that had been taking shape in her heart for some time now.
“Madame Ionesco, if a person—two persons to be precise—are not actually dead, but merely absent, would your soothsaying powers still enable you to send them a message?”
The wizened lady patted her cheek. “Messages to the living? That’s what the post office is for, honey. So long, wolf babies! Come visit when you’re in the neighborhood.”
The Incorrigible children hugged the fortune-teller and danced in and out of her countless billowing scarves as they caught the puffs of steam from the awakening locomotive like so many wind-filled sails. Penelope watched the children play with a fond heart and considered the Gypsy’s reply. She could write a letter to her parents, but where could she send it? To the Long-Lost Lumleys, care of Alpine Scenery, Somewhere in Europe? Even the London General Post Office, which was the swiftest and most reliable postal service in the world, would be flummoxed by that address.
Madame Ionesco’s train departed right on schedule. Simon’s train waited on the opposite platform. Once aboard, he secured a window seat so he could continue to wave many highly theatrical farewells to Penelope and the children. In fact, he was hanging so far out the window that Penelope could not help but think of Beowulf and the warbler. How could she ever have thought it was a nuthatch? “Distracted by a book,” she thought wryly. A silly book about a silly pony contest that she knew from the very first page Rainbow would win, for Rainbow always won. If, just once, something wildly dramatic could happen to Edith-Anne and Rainbow—something truly unexpected, like an attack by cannibals—
“Cannibals!” she exclaimed. Penelope reached up and grabbed Simon’s hand, which dangled just within reach. “I meant to tell you: I found an unusual book in Lord Fredrick’s library, written by a cabin boy,” she said in a rush, for the conductor had already shouted “All aboard!” and closed up the doors, which meant the train was ready to leave. “It has to do with cannibals, but it is so smudged with age and seawater I can barely read a word of it.”
“Cannibals?” Simon laughed (although of course, there is nothing particularly amusing about cannibals). “That’s funny. Uncle Pudge is always talking about cannibals. Claims he met some once, when he was only a cabin boy. Something to do with a shipwreck.”
“This book deals with a shipwreck, too.” She felt suddenly lightheaded, and would not let go of Simon’s hand.
“What’s it called?”
“The title is An Encounter with the Man-Eating Savages of Ahwoo-Ahwoo, as Told by the Cabin Boy—”
Whoo whoo!
Whoo whoo!
The train whistle blew as soon as she started to speak, and she was drowned out.
“Didn’t get any of that,” Simon yelled over the rumble of the engine. “Say again?”
She coughed from all the steam; when she found her voice, she yelled, “—and Sole Survivor of a Gruesomely Failed Seafaring Expedition Through Parts Unknown: Absolutely Not to Be Read by Children—”
Whoo whoo!
Whoo whoo!
Once more she was drowned out by the whistle’s blast. “Never mind,” she shouted when the din stopped. “It is a long title. But it is definitely about a cabin boy. In a shipwreck. With cannibals.”
Whoo whoo!
Whoo whoo!
“A cabin boy in a shipwreck, you say?” Simon was shouting now, too. “That’d be a funny coincidence. If it were the same shipwreck, I mean.”
“It certainly would. Yet I think I would have noticed if the author’s name was Pudge. Unless I was distracted.” Penelope shivered, for that slippery, icy feeling was trickling down her spine again. “Is Pudge your great-uncle’s real name?”
He grinned. “I doubt it. Who’d name their child Pudge? But it’s the only name I’ve ever known for him. I’ll ask him when I see him. I do remember the name of the island where this shipwreck happened, though; he’s told me the story many times. It’s—”
Whoo whoo!
Whoo whoo!
The train began to move, and Penelope was forced to let go. Simon shouted, and she tried to read his lips. But the train whistle hooted and the engine roared, and a thick, rolling fog of steam blanketed the station platform. The train lumbered off, slowly at first, and then gained speed.
“Stay there, children!” she shouted, breaking into a run. “Do not move!” Penelope raced along the platform, neck and neck with the train, until it pulled ahead and she could not keep up anymore. Through the fog she saw Simon’s head craned out the window, mouthing the name of this mysterious island in time to the train whistle:
Simon shouted, and she tried to read his lips.
Whoo whoo!
Whoo whoo!
“Ahwoo-Ahwoo,” she whispered to herself. “Of course.”