Horten's Incredible Illusions (14 page)

As Stuart told the nonmagic version of the story, Rowena did a lot of nodding, but he got the feeling she wasn’t really listening. Looking up at her was making his neck ache, so he dropped his gaze and saw the small dog sidling around the edge of the Fan of Fantasticality.

“And then,” he continued, “I turned a wheel which I thought would open a door, and instead of that, the whole middle of the bandstand started to sink, and sudden—”

The man with the beard and the headphones started tapping his watch and signaling to Rowena.

“Wow!” said Rowena, interrupting Stuart in the middle of a word. “That’s
incredible
. Now let’s talk to the chief
curator
of the museum, Rod
Felton
.” She walked past Stuart to where Rod Felton had been positioned in front of the opened Fan of Fantasticality.

“So,
Rod
, tell me the
impact
that having these fabulous
items
has had on your museum.”

“Well, Rowena,” he said, “it’s certainly an exciting find, one that’s going to keep our summer program ticking along nicely—but perhaps we should ask a visitor. Oh, look!” he added, with obviously fake surprise. “Here’s one you could speak to!” He gestured rather woodenly to his left, just as Stuart’s father walked around the side of the fan.

“Oh
no
,” muttered Stuart, wanting to crawl into a hole at the thought of his father on television.

Rowena shot a puzzled look at her producer and then managed a professional smile. “Good morning, sir,” she said. “Can you tell us what you think of this exhibition?”

“I would classify it as both serendipitous and recherché,” replied Stuart’s father.

Rowena’s smile slipped a bit. “I think what our viewers want to know is whether you enjoyed it or not.”

“An unequivocal affirmative to the former. But I am also ardently anticipating the forthcoming opportunity for examining our present conurbation in its pre-Saxon context.”

Rowena gawped at him. “You
what
?” she asked.

“Aha!” said Rod Felton, stepping forward. “You must mean the Roman Beeton exhibition, opening here at Beeton Museum in ten days’ time—Tuesdays to Sundays 10 a.m. to 6 p.m., except on Wednesdays when we close at three. Packed with interest for both the expert and the beginner! See you there!”

He smiled and waved at the camera, resting one foot, in a relaxed sort of fashion, on the edge of the Fan of Fantasticality.

There was a loud
boinggg
, the fan snapped shut, and Rod Felton flew sideways through the air and knocked over Rowena Allsopp.

May Kingley’s camera flashed.

“CUT!” shouted the producer. “CUT! CUT! CUT! BACK TO THE STUDIO! Are you all right, Rowena?” he added, running forward.

“No, I am
not
!” shrieked Rowena, struggling to her feet and dusting herself down. “In my entire professional career I have
never
taken part in such a fiasco. Children who won’t shut up, adults who talk total gibberish, amateurs who try to take over
my
interview, and now a vicious attack by a dangerous machine, all on live TV and watched by my
millions
of fans.
And
I’ve broken a nail and”—she frowned down at herself—”and there’s something on my jacket. Something wet. And there’s a … a
puddle
on the floor just where I fell.”

Everyone looked down at the small puddle. Then everyone looked over at the small dog.

Rowena screamed.

“I am so, so sorry,” said Rod Felton.

“You
will
be,” said Rowena hysterically. “The whole of the Midlands has just seen me land,
live
, in a pool of dog urine. Apologies aren’t good enough. I’m going to call my lawyer and get this entire museum shut
down
!”

CHAPTER 22

Stuart and the triplets stood in the corridor outside Rod Felton’s office and listened to the argument going on inside. Phrases like “personal injury liability” and “health and safety inspection” were being shouted really loudly. June was doing a lot of scribbling in her notebook. Stuart’s dad had wandered off to the bookstore.

“They can’t actually close the place down, can they?” whispered April.

One by one the camera crew trailed past them, lugging their equipment toward the entrance. The last one to leave was the teenage boy, balancing a column of coffee cups. A couple of feet behind him came the small dog. It was brown and white with a pointed muzzle and very short legs.

“
Shoo
,” said the teenage boy, turning. “Go home.”

“Isn’t it yours?” asked Stuart.

The boy shook his head. “It followed us in. Must be a stray.”

The dog paused uncertainly, and Stuart watched as it turned and trotted back into the exhibition room. Something was tugging at his memory.

At the same moment the door to the office was wrenched open, and Rowena Allsopp stalked out, followed by Rod Felton, who had turned a bit pale.

He looked down at Stuart and April. “Right,” he said, “er … we’ve reached a useful compromise. Rowena won’t sue us for criminal injuries and personal humiliation if we immediately close down the magic exhibition and replace it with a temporary display of her favorite outfits from
Midlands at Midday
. We’ve also agreed to stock copies of her brand-new biography,
Rowena’s Way
, in the museum bookstore, as well as placing a full-size cardboard cutout of her by the cash register.”

Stuart and April turned to watch Rowena leave the building, the main door crashing shut behind her.

“On a brighter note,” added Rod Felton, “she’s agreed to come and open the Roman Beeton exhibition, which should get us quite a lot of publicity. She’s going to combine it with a book signing.”

“But what about Great-Uncle Tony’s tricks?” asked Stuart indignantly. “Where are they going to go?”

“Yes, you’ve put your finger on a
slight
problem,” admitted Rod. “Our storeroom’s pretty full at the moment. I wonder if one of the larger regional museums might take them until we’ve got some free space again. I’ll start making some phone calls.” He went back into the office.

Stuart looked at April. “What are we going to do?” he asked. “If they end up in a warehouse in Birmingham or somewhere, we’ll never get to see them.”

“Let me think for five seconds …” said April, squeezing her eyes tight shut. “Perhaps we could—”

“A petition!” announced one of her sisters.

“What?” asked April, opening her eyes again. “What are you going on about, June?”

“Save Beeton’s Magical Heritage,” said June, making every word sound weighty and important. “It’s precisely the sort of thing the
Beech Road Guardian
should be doing. It’s a matter of civic pride. We can print up a special edition—with photographs,” she added, looking at May, who nodded eagerly. “
And
I’ve got an idea for temporary storage of the magic tricks.”

“What is it?” asked Stuart, feeling left out.

June held up her hand like a traffic cop. “No,” she said firmly. “First I need to put down my thoughts while they’re fresh.” She turned to a clean page in her notebook and started to write.

“And I’ve got some
brilliant
photographs of the whole dog-peeing incident,” announced May, beaming.

April nudged Stuart. “Shall we let them get on with it?” she whispered.

He nodded, but distractedly.

“What’s up?” she asked.

“I’ve just remembered something,” he said, and walked quickly back to the exhibition room.

The dog was sitting on the bronze throne of the Reappearing Rose Bower, curled in a neat circle. It raised its ears as Stuart approached.

“What have you remembered?” asked April, catching up.

“I’ve seen this dog before. When I was in the desert, just as I’d managed to piece the pyramid back together, I caught a glimpse of it.”

“
This
dog? This
actual
dog?”

“I think so. And in Great-Uncle Tony’s message it said that he’d
lost an old pal
, and
pal
means
friend
, doesn’t it? So I’m wondering if this is who he meant. I mean, we haven’t seen any
people
, have we?” The dog lifted its head and regarded them with anxious brown eyes.

“But in that case, how did it get out of the pyramid and into our world?” asked April, and then she clapped a hand to her mouth, her eyes wide.

“What?” asked Stuart.

“I’ve just remembered something too. When I was in the Arch of Mirrors, after I shouted all that useful advice to you about choosing the right reflection, the lights started to dim, and I could feel myself being sort of pulled back to the museum. And just as it got completely dark I heard something behind me. A clicking noise. Like little toenails on a hard floor, following me back to the real world …”

They both looked at the dog, and after a moment it twitched its tail in a half-greeting.

Stuart reached out and gave it a cautious pat, and it wagged its tail harder and craned around to sniff at his fingers. Its coat was warm and wiry. It occurred to him that the last person to pat this dog had been Great-Uncle Tony.

“I’ve never had a dog,” he said. “Only goldfish.”

“Stuart,” said April tentatively. “Sorry to change the subject and all that, but since we’ve got a bit of time here, do you think we ought to make the most of it? After all, there’s still three spokes of the star left. And that must mean three more clues—three more letters to find.”

Stuart felt in his pocket and took out the awkward little metal object. The next trick to try would be the throne of the Reappearing Rose Bower.

“You know we can’t both go on this one …” he said.

April nodded. She clasped her hands in front of her, like someone being good in class, and Stuart could see that she was desperately hoping to be picked.

And he had an idea—a slightly mean idea, but a good one; an idea that would ensure he’d be the only one who found the final letter clue, and therefore the only one who’d be able to find the will.

“If you go on this adventure,” he said, “when we get to the last one, can I do it by myself?”

She gave a little hop of pleasure. “Absolutely. Thanks, Stuart—and I’ll be as quick as I can, because hanging upside-down isn’t very nice. Er … can I suggest something?”

“What?”

“Go to the bathroom before you strap yourself in there.”

Five minutes later, Stuart climbed onto the throne of the Reappearing Rose Bower and handed the magic star to April.

“Look after the dog, would you?” he asked. He could see it roaming around the room, its stump of a tail wagging briskly.

“Of course,” said April.

“And good luck.”

“Thanks. See you soon.”

She was grinning as he pulled the lever; the silver stems of the rose bower closed in a tangled thicket around him, and the metal strap snapped across his middle. He pulled the lever again and managed not to yell as he spun upside-down into utter darkness.

“You okay?” shouted April, sounding very far away.

“Mmmm,” was all Stuart could manage by way of an answer.

“I’ll be off then.”

There was a little pause, an odd scuffling noise, and then a metallic clink directly above him. For a second the seat shook like the top of a washing machine on spin cycle, and then all was quiet again.

“April?” he called. There was no reply. She was in whatever world the magic star had flung her into. Now all he had to do was wait.

It was massively uncomfortable, the safety strap digging into his stomach, the blood rushing to his head. He braced his arms and legs against the sides to take the weight off the strap, and wondered how long he’d have to stay there. He started counting, and got to two thousand before losing track of the numbers.

Time passed. It was quite warm in the interior of the Reappearing Rose Bower, and despite his awkward position, he began to feel sleepy. He tapped out a couple of tunes on the metal walls, and then searched his pockets to see whether he had anything interesting in them. It took a bit of wriggling, but he discovered a piece of candy, a paper clip, and a peach pit. He dropped them, one by one, into the darkness. He wondered what the dog was doing. He wondered what his mom was doing. He tried to think of what the dog’s name might be—Great-Uncle Tony’s message had said it began with
Ch
: Chance. Chocco. Charlie. Charlie was a good name. Stuart yawned.

He was woken by his head banging against the wall. The whole mechanism was lurching, tipping, swaying, moving. It was being
carried
. He could hear muffled voices and the rattling of a metal roller door.

The Reappearing Rose Bower was set down with a crash, and Stuart banged his head again. The metal door rattled down, another door slammed violently, an engine started with a deep growling note, and the Reappearing Rose Bower jerked forward. Stuart banged his head for the third time, but he was panicking too much to think about the pain. He was panicking because it was clear that he was no longer in the museum but in the back of a truck.