“I still don’t get it,” Max said, crossing her arms. She wanted to get out of the street, out of the emptiness and the dark. But she would never say so.
“The mark on Mr. Anderson’s neck,” Sam said slowly. “It was all wrong.”
“Exactly!” Thomas said. This time, he slid the belt against his neck and pretended that someone was pulling it tightly from behind. “Now watch this. Let’s say I didn’t string myself up. Let’s say, instead, someone strangled me. Someone approximately my height.”
In a flash, Max understood. The bruise on Mr. Anderson’s neck went the wrong way. It went straight across his neck, instead of up toward his ears.
Pippa inhaled sharply. “It was murder,” she said, in a whisper.
Murder. The word hung between them like one of Max’s knives, sharp-toothed and frightening. Every time Pippa closed her eyes, she saw Mr. Anderson’s face, purple as a bruise, and the terrible mark around his neck.
First that old woman had plummeted from her balcony. Then the head was stolen. And now, a murder. What did it mean?
The subway ride from Brooklyn seemed to take ages. Sam appeared to be sleeping, although Pippa was sure he wasn’t. Max picked her nails with a blade and did her best to look unconcerned. Thomas produced a book from his back pocket. It had a bright red cover and was called Statistics for Everybody, and Pippa was sure he hadn’t taken it with him from the museum.
“Where did you get that?” Pippa asked suspiciously.
Thomas blushed. Suddenly, Pippa understood.
“Oh no,” she said. “Not you, too.”
“It was just sitting on a shelf,” Thomas said sheepishly. “Besides, it’s not like Mr. Anderson will miss it.”
“You’re unbelievable,” Pippa said, while Max grinned and gave Thomas the thumbs-up.
By the time they arrived at the museum, Pippa was practically numb from exhaustion. The windows, usually bright with lamps, were dark. The front door was locked, so Thomas knocked. It wasn’t Potts who came to admit them but Betty, carrying an old gas lantern from the museum’s collection of Victorian household items and wearing a nightgown shaped like a tent, her hair pinned into various rollers, her beard carefully braided for the evening.
“Why’s it so quiet?” Thomas asked. “Where’s Potts?”
“Keep your voice down,” she whispered. “Mr. Dumfrey has a terrible headache. Potts nipped out to the pharmacy.”
“Is he sick?” Pippa asked, feeling a pulse of anxiety.
Betty bustled ahead of them, her slippers slapping against the wood floor. In the circle of light from her lantern, the exhibits were lit up grotesquely on either side of them: shadows skated like bats over the walls and ceiling; glass reflected distorted faces and leering smiles.
“He’s doing the books,” she said. “Mr. Cabillaud insisted. And you know how numbers upset Mr. Dumfrey. He worked himself into an absolute tizzy.” No sooner had she finished speaking than the children heard the shrill cry of the telephone.
Betty sighed. “Now what?” she muttered, shaking her head. Her long beard waggled.
They climbed the stairs, following the jerky progression of Betty’s lamp. As they neared Mr. Dumfrey’s third-floor chambers, a door slammed. Monsieur Cabillaud appeared on the landing, carrying an enormous leather ledger, his expression even more pinched than usual.
“What’s the matter, Henri?” Betty asked.
“I have been dismissed for ze evening,” he said stiffly. “Monsieur Dumfrey has had enough. When it comes to ze mathematics, he is worse even than Sam!”
Sam blushed. “I try,” he mumbled. Math was his worst subject.
“There, there, Henri,” Betty said, and patted Monsieur Cabillaud’s shoulder consolingly.
Pippa hung back as the others continued up toward the attic. Mr. Dumfrey’s office door was closed, but through the wood she could hear the muffled sound of his voice.
“No,” he kept repeating. That was the word that had gotten her attention in the first place. “No. It can’t be.” There was a short pause. Pippa realized he must have answered the telephone. “But how?”
Pippa hesitated, then pressed her ear to the door. She felt bad about eavesdropping, but she had a feeling that Mr. Dumfrey’s phone call and Mr. Anderson’s death were related. A second later, however, she was proven incorrect.
“Absolutely not.” Mr. Dumfrey’s voice turned hard. “I haven’t spoken to him in thirty years. He knows to stay away from me. Oh, yes. He knows. He’s no family of mine, sir!” Mr. Dumfrey thundered, after another pause. “Please don’t call here again.”
Pippa heard the phone slammed forcefully back into the receiver. She drew back and hurried up the stairs.
The attic was unexpectedly quiet. Normally, the residents of Dumfrey’s Dime Museum stayed up late, playing cards, gossiping, or listening to baseball on the radio and making bets about whether the Yankees would win. Hugo, the elephant man, might read aloud from one of his books—Robinson Crusoe was the popular favorite, although he was always pressing for War and Peace. Sometimes Smalls recited one of his poems in progress, although he’d become so insulted after Goldini yawned in the middle of his sonnets that for weeks he’d been refusing to share anything more.
Danny might play a few notes on his violin, which was so old and warped no one but he could coax any notes from it, but which sang under his stubby fingers like a brand-new instrument. On special occasions, he even broke out his cherished bagpipe, which was normally stored in a beautiful velvet-lined walnut case underneath his bed. Then Phoebe—who was surprisingly light on her feet, despite being the fattest lady in New York—would demonstrate how to do the two-step and every so often, on rare, magical nights, would convince Mr. Dumfrey to dance with her.
But Mr. Dumfrey’s news, and the danger that the museum might close, had soured the atmosphere, as though someone had farted and no one wanted to admit to it. Everyone pretended to act normal while, instead, doing the opposite. Hugo had a book open on his lap but didn’t once turn the page. Betty didn’t remember her rollers until the sharp stench of burned hair reminded her, and Danny plucked a single string of his violin mournfully, over and over, so it sounded as though the instrument was crying. Even Quinn and Caroline did not have enough energy to argue with each other.
Pippa couldn’t believe that only two days ago, Mr. Dumfrey had nearly danced a jig when he descended midmorning and—seeing the visitors lined up outside the museum doors—crowed that they would all be rich.
Life without the museum would be a form of imprisonment: dull and hard and lonely. The museum was everything to her, as familiar as breathing, as close and comforting as the dented space in her mattress that fitted her body exactly. She had no memories of life before the museum, except for strange, shadowy images of a vast dark hallway and nightmare figures that sometimes came to her, stretching their skinny fingers between the bars of their cages.
She finally drifted to sleep when the moon had already started descending toward the horizon, and woke with the sun shining aggressively. She was alone. Confused, she got up and shoved her feet in the lambskin slippers Mr. Dumfrey had given all the children for Christmas last year, then padded to the stairwell. Why hadn’t Mrs. Cobble woken everyone for breakfast, as she usually did? Why hadn’t Potts come stomping through the attic, grunting, “Grub’s on. Hurry up or miss out”?
Her stomach knotted up. Something terrible must have happened.
She practically flew down the stairs, slippers slapping loudly against the wood. She could hear voices, and she followed them down the hall, down the steep flight of stairs that led to the cellar, and burst into the kitchen.
Several dozen faces looked up at her in surprise. Caroline and Quinn were enjoying a rare moment of peace, seated side by side and dressed identically, sharing a single cup of coffee. Smalls was holding a vast dusty volume called Collected Romantic Poetry, his place marked with a massive finger. Sam, Thomas, and Max were sitting at the table, along with various
other residents of the museum, many of them still in their pajamas, blinking sleep from their eyes or patting down hair that seemed to have been electrified overnight. Potts was glowering at Thomas from his usual spot in the corner.
Dumfrey was missing.
“Where’s Mr. Dumfrey?” Pippa asked breathlessly, almost fearing to hear the answer.
“Went out to get the paper,” Thomas said, yawning.
“Where’s Mrs. Cobble?” Pippa asked, noticing that she, too, was missing.
“Up and left,” Potts spat out.
“Traitor!” Miss Fitch shook her head. The children could always tell what kind of mood Miss Fitch was in by the severity of her part. Today her hair looked as if it had been raked and pulled with unusual ferocity. “Treacherous, two-faced traitor. As soon as Mr. Dumfrey suggested a reduction in wages . . .”
“She took her spoons and sailed out the door,” Danny finished for her, waddling out from behind the table. He was wearing Mrs. Cobble’s old pink apron, which reached all the way to his toes.
He began whisking eggs so vigorously, half of them ended up on the floor. “It’s a damn shame. . . .”
“Language, Daniel!” Miss Fitch said.
“But it is. After all Mr. Dumfrey did for her. Did for all of us! I’d like to kick her in the shins. I’ll do it, too, if I ever see that snaggletoothed hound again.”
“We’ll just have to make do without her, Danny,” Betty said soothingly, reaching over and removing the eggs from him before he could whisk them into nonexistence.
In Mrs. Cobble’s absence, everyone pitched in to help get breakfast on the table. And though Quinn complained the eggs were too runny and Caroline complained they were too hard and Goldini burned the toast while attempting to make it vanish and reappear and Betty lost several beard hairs in the porridge, by the time they sat down to eat, Pippa was so hungry she thought it was the best breakfast she’d ever had.
She was trying to prevent Max from licking her bowl, when the door opened and Mr. Dumfrey appeared on the stairs, a newspaper tucked under one arm.
He seemed to have aged a decade overnight. His face was the gray of wet paper pulp. He wasn’t smiling.
“Pippa,” he said in a tone so sharp it made her chest constrict with fear. “Thomas. Samuel. Max. My office. Now.”
The kitchen went silent. Pippa stood up from the table, conscious of the loud grating of the bench against the floor. Max, Sam, and Thomas stood, too. Together, they followed Mr. Dumfrey as he stomped up the performers’ staircase ahead of them. Pippa felt as if she were on her way to the guillotine.
“What’s got his panties in a pinch?” Max whispered.
“Shut up, Max,” Pippa said. She had never seen Mr. Dumfrey so upset.
When they reached Mr. Dumfrey’s office, Mr. Dumfrey ushered them inside without a word, closing the door firmly behind them.
“Sit.” He gestured toward the motley collection of stools and crates he had pulled up to the desk. Pippa took a faded silk stool; Thomas folded himself up onto a milk crate; Sam eased himself down into an armchair, wincing when it creaked; and Max remained standing, scowling, arms crossed. In his corner cage, Cornelius was hopping up and down excitedly, occasionally letting out a throaty cry of “Cocoa!”
Mr. Dumfrey sank down into the armchair behind his desk. For a second, he said nothing, staring at each of the children in turn. Behind the lenses of his glasses, his small blue eyes glittered, and Pippa had the sense that he was staring deep into her mind and finding it seriously wanting. She lowered her eyes.
“Would you care to explain what this is about?” he said at last, and threw the paper with a flourish onto the desk. A small red bottle labeled Sasquatch Blood rolled onto the ground.
Thomas and Sam exchanged a glance. Thomas leaned forward.
“It’s the Daily Screamer,” he said cautiously.
“I’m aware,” Mr. Dumfrey said drily. He removed his glasses and began polishing them. “Thomas, perhaps you’ll do us the honor of reading the first page out loud.”
Thomas frowned and looked to the others for help. Pippa shrugged.
“Today, Thomas,” Mr. Dumfrey said, returning his glasses to his nose.
Thomas cleared his throat. “‘Disgraced Scientist Makes Daring Prison Break—’”
“Not that one,” Mr. Dumfrey practically barked. “The other headline, please.”
“‘Horror Head Claims Another Victim,’” he read. “‘By Bill Evans.’” He looked up uncertainly. Mr. Dumfrey gestured for him to continue.
Thomas shook out the paper and went on reading:
“‘The Horrifying Head recently procured by Mr. Dumfrey’s Dime Museum, and subsequently stolen in the middle of the night, has claimed another life. Mr. Arthur Anderson of Anderson’s Delights was found on Tuesday evening at eight p.m. hanging from the ceiling in his apartment on Seventh Street in Brooklyn, and pronounced dead at the scene.’
“‘Mr. Anderson was the seller of the head, and had allegedly been attempting to negotiate for its return.’
“‘“Sold it off to the museum for hardly anything,” said Reginald Anderson, Mr. Anderson’s distraught nephew.’
“‘The head has not been long in New York City but already has left a blood-spattered trail in its wake. Two people who had recently been in the presence of the head have died violent deaths in less than a week. Coincidence? Or curse?’”
Thomas broke off and glanced up at Dumfrey, who had leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes.
“Please continue,” he said, without opening his eyes. “We’re almost at my favorite part.”
Thomas swallowed back a sigh and continued: “‘Further adding to the mystery of Mr. Anderson’s death was the presence at the scene of four children subsequently identified as being part of the collection of “entertainers” who call Dumfrey’s Dime Museum home—’”
Thomas nearly choked. Pippa inhaled sharply, and Sam groaned.
Dumfrey opened his eyes. “Continue,” he growled.
Thomas licked his lips.
“‘These four children, if they can rightly so be called, gained admittance into Mr. Anderson’s apartments under false pretenses, escaped detection by the police under the same, and were only subsequently identified by yours truly based on descriptions provided by officers on the scene.’”
Max said a bad word, and everyone shushed her.
“‘“I thought they were just some neighborhood kids,” said Assistant Chief Inspector Carl Hardaway. “They looked normal to me.”’
“‘But normal is precisely what these children are not, as this journalist knows firsthand. Thomas Able, Philippa (Pippa) Devue, Sam Fort, and Mackenzie (last name unknown) have achieved notoriety due to their freakish, some would say unnatural, abilities. A body as limber as an elastic band; the ability to read minds, or at the very least, pockets; a preternatural strength; a ferocious and deadly skill with knives: these are some of the strengths of this group of freaks, of human abominations.’”
Max said another bad word. This time, no one shushed her.
Thomas turned the page. His hands were shaking so badly, the paper rattled loudly.
“‘Should they be allowed to roam the streets unaccompanied? Is it advisable? Is it safe?’
“‘What were they doing at the scene of Mr. Anderson’s death, and is it related to the theft of the shrunken head, which some claim was a stunt orchestrated by Mr. Dumfrey himself? For more, turn to our editorial on page—’”
“That’s enough,” Mr. Dumfrey said, and Thomas stopped reading. For a moment there was complete silence. No one wanted to speak first, and Pippa couldn’t bring herself to meet Mr. Dumfrey’s eyes. “We return to the original question,” he said softly. “Who wants to explain to me what this is about?”
“It’s all lies,” Max burst out. “Saying we’re freaks and abdominals—”
“Abominations.”
“—saying you pulled some kind of stunt. He should be cut open and tur
ned into jerky.”
“I’m sure Mr. Evans, like all journalists of his kind, has taken some liberties,” Mr. Dumfrey said. “But he was right about one very important thing. Behind my back, without asking my permission, at a time when I believed you to be in the attic, you sneaked out and paid a visit to Mr. Anderson, my dear—and now dead—friend. So I want to know: Why?”
Sam coughed. “It was about the head, sir.”
Dumfrey blinked.
Thomas came to Sam’s aid. “We thought that Potts might have struck a deal with Mr. Anderson—”
“I’ve told you to leave Potts alone,” Mr. Dumfrey said sharply, banging his fist on the desk. Pippa jumped, and another little bottle (Strand of Marie Antoinette’s Hair read the label) rolled onto the carpet. Then Dumfrey sighed and sagged back in his chair. When he spoke again, his voice was much quieter.
“I know I’m not your father,” he said softly, turning his eyes to each of them in turn. “Nonetheless, I consider you all my children. You too, Max,” he added, since she seemed about to protest. “My children, and my responsibility to protect. There are dangers out there. Evils you’re too young to understand—” Mr. Dumfrey broke off. He continued more calmly, “I can’t imagine what you hoped to accomplish by invading Mr. Anderson’s home, but I think we can agree that the mission was a failure. From now on, I expect you to keep out of this business entirely.”
“But what about—” Thomas started to say.
“Entirely,” Mr. Dumfrey repeated sternly. “Do I make myself clear?”
Thomas nodded slowly. Pippa felt heavy with guilt but also frustration. If the museum really was in danger of closing, she couldn’t just stand there and watch it fail. They needed that head.
And Mr. Evans’s article was right about something else—two people connected to the head had died in the span of a week.
Mr. Dumfrey pushed back from his desk. As though reading her mind, he said, “Let the police do their job. If the head can be found, they’ll find it.”