Molly Moon & the Morphing Mystery

“What half?” Black asked, perking up.

“The second part.”

“What, ‘Muse o’ life, and you will find’? What does it mean to you?”

“Well,” Micky went on. “I think you’ve got the O wrong. You think it means ‘muse o’ life,’ as in ‘muse on life,’ as in ‘think about life.’ But I think the O means ‘of,’ and it says ‘muse of life.’ And I think muse is short for museum.” Micky bit his lip and smiled. His smile was infectious. “What museums are there?” he asked.

“Art museums,” Molly suggested. “Science museums, history museums…and…”

“And?”

“And natural history museums!”

“Yes. They have the history of the planet, of animals and minerals, and of humans, don’t they? A natural history museum is a museum of life, isn’t it? Yes, I think, ‘muse o’ life,’ Mr. Black, might be the same thing as ‘museum of life.’ I wonder, is it one big coincidence that Miss Hunroe and her horrid cronies hang out in the natural history museum?”

“You’re a genius!” Molly exclaimed. Quickly she cast her mind back to Miss Hunroe’s library. She remembered the painting that hung above the fireplace. She had thought it of a strange, uprooted, pointed poplarlike tree. “The picture!” she said. “The picture over the library fireplace! It wasn’t of a tree—it was of a feather quill! What was the first line of the clue, Mr. Black?”

“Where there is a quill, there is a way.”

“Your turn to be a genius,” Micky said. The twins looked at each other. This was turning into a treasure hunt. And both knew that venturing back to the museum and sneaking about in Hunroe’s rooms was a job that would be best done by them alone.

“Hopefully,” Micky said, “Hunroe and her friends are already miles away from London, on their way to these Logan Stones.”

Molly nodded. “The rooms in the museum will be empty. I don’t expect they will have left the book behind, but maybe the next clue to where the Stones are will be there.” Molly sighed. “Only a few days ago I was wishing my life was more exciting and adventurous.”

“You have to be careful what you wish for,” Micky said.

Molly gave Petula a squeeze. Outside, a rumble of thunder boomed out of the now charcoal sky, making the windows of the hotel rattle.

Seventeen

“Do you really think Petula needs to come?” Black asked.

It was properly dark now. Micky, Molly, and Petula were sitting in the backseat of Black’s old Mercedes that was parked by the corner of the natural history museum, near its second entrance. Malcolm Tixley was in the passenger seat beside Black. His eyes followed the journey of the half-bent wipers as they swept left and right at the sloshings of water that pelted down on the windshield.

“Petula’s good luck,” Molly explained. “She’s like a mascot. In fact, she has often helped me. She’s been all over the world with me, forward and backward in time, too. She’s part of the team, isn’t she, Micky?”

“Absolutely,” Micky replied. “Wow, it’s wet out there.” A rumble of thunder rolled through the sky as if in agreement.

Black turned off his engine. “Here are a couple of flashlights for you. You may need them. We’ll wait for you here.” He consulted his watch. “Remember, if you’re not back by midnight, I’m coming in.”

Molly read the luminescent clock on the dashboard. It was ten fifteen. “We’ll be fine,” she said, far more confidently than she felt. “Don’t worry about us. Anyway, Malcolm, your red box can still track me, right?”

“Yes,” said Malcolm, pulling his gadget out of his pocket and switching it on. It bleeped reassuringly.

“Good. And you never know, we may find my time-stopping crystals and time-traveling gems in there somewhere. Then, wow, everything would be really cool. Ready, Micky?”

Standing in the rain outside, Micky rang the bell. Water seeped under the elastic wristband of Molly’s jacket. She held Petula tight.

A light came on inside the building and the night watchman, an elderly, whiskered man with a blue uniform, came through the inner safety door of the museum and peered out through the football-sized peephole of the main door. He couldn’t see much as the glass was so wet, but it was clear that the two people outside were children. He knew how dangerous the London streets could be at night, so he reached behind him to lock the safety catch of the inner door, and then he reached for the bolt of the main door.

“Hello, are you two all right?” he asked. “It’s raining cats and dogs out there.”

The little girl came forward.

“We’re lost,” she said in a wobbly voice. “We’re lost. We ran away from home, see, and now we’re lost.”

“Ran away from home? Lost? Dear me!” The night watchman glanced out at the empty, black, glistening street that bounced with rainwater. Then he looked at the two straggly, sodden children and their black pug. They were harmless.

“Come on in, then,” he said kindly, beckoning them inside.

“I’m very sorry,” said Molly as the old man led them through the second door into the museum, toward his office. “And thank you very much.”

“What on earth are a nice couple of kids like you doin’ runnin’ away from home?” the watchman asked. “That’s what I want to know.”

Molly considered the man. Hunroe would have definitely hypnotized him, she thought. Hypnotized him not to be hypnotized by anyone else. Hunroe would have locked her hypnotism in with a password. But if Molly found out the password, then she could override Miss Hunroe’s hypnotism. So, using the skill that no one else knew she had, she opened a thought bubble over the man’s head, and she asked him, “What is the password that Miss Hunroe used to lock in your hypnotism?” The old man frowned.

“I’m sorry? I don’t think I understand your question, dear. Come into the office and have a hot chocolate or a cup of tea or something. We’ll sort everything out there.” But as he spoke, a picture of an apple appeared above his head. Then she switched on her eyes.

As the hypnotic lasers of her pupils beamed into the old man’s, she said, “I unlock your previous hypnotism with the word ‘Apple,’ and now, I’m sorry, I mean, you are a very nice old man and all that, but until I set you free, you are now completely and utterly under my power.” Like a creature born to obey her, the old man stood obediently in front of Molly.

“How did you know the password?” Micky asked incredulously. Molly shrugged casually.

“No, that’s weird, Molly. How did you know?”

“Intuition,” Molly fibbed. Micky held her gaze and tilted his head as though he found this difficult to believe.

“Really?” he said.

Minutes later, Molly, Micky, and Petula were being led by the hypnotized night watchman through the museum in a passage lined with stuffed birds. Ahead, in the musty gloom of the main hall of the museum, they could see the massive skeletal legs of the diplodocus.

“We’ll see you later, then,” Molly whispered to the old man. “Wait by the side door to let us out.”

The watchman nodded and smiled.

“Right…you…are,” he whispered back in a halting tone.

Molly and Micky paused and surveyed the dark, cathedral-proportioned space with its grand staircase that split into two, curving around to join the first-floor balcony. Petula sniffed the air and tried to read its swarms of smells. The overriding odor was floor polish. Under this was the smell of ancient bones, and old fur, and the smell of that afternoon’s visitors’ footsteps, which had brought in scents from the street. And Petula could detect that onions and garlic had been fried a few hours before and a croissant had been eaten upstairs. The scent of lavender