Act Two, Part Four
He could have predicted it, Artie groused inwardly on the ride back to the hotel. No — no, he had predicted it! The visit to the funeral parlor had been disastrous, and all the blame for the debacle could only be laid squarely and fairly at the outsized feet of one Miss Hippolyta Bracewell.
It had started out innocently enough. Once the three of them arrived at the undertaker's, Miss Atalanta, leaning heavily on Artie's arm, had ventured across the tastefully decorated parlor to view her late lamented father lying there in his casket, his brow smooth, his wispy gray hair brushed back, his aged hands folded neatly across his middle. The unfortunate young woman gave a gasp and dissolved into tears on the shoulder of the avuncular Mr Gordon. Gently he led her away to a chair and offered the use of his handkerchief, which she declined. After several minutes of weeping profusely into her own pink lace hankie, Atalanta blinked back the tears, composed herself, then essayed the opinion of "Oh, b-but he d-does look so natural, d-don't you think s-so, Mr Gordon?"
"Natural!" came a scoffing braying voice, intruding itself into the cozy tête-à-tête. "Natural, my eye!" Miss Hippolyta snarled. "What an utterly asinine thing to say! You know perfectly well, Lana, that it could only be accurate to describe Father as 'looking natural' right now if his normal, everyday aspect had been that of a wax dummy in Madame Tussaud's!"
Miss Atalanta's comely lower lip quivered anew. "P-p-polly, p-please!" she whimpered, even as Artie turned a stern look the Amazon's way. "Now, Miss Hippolyta," he began.
"Oh, really! Don't you defend her, Mr Gordon!" Hippolyta returned hotly. "To extol that… that caricature of humanity over there as our father looking natural was beyond ridiculous, and you know it! And as for you!" She shifted her glower towards her sister. "Don't you ever call me Polly!"
"Now, Miss Bracewell," the undertaker intervened, "I must assure you that your father has had the finest of care here at Prior & Sons, and that in preparing his earthly remains for his final resting place, we have used nothing but the highest quality of materials and the most advanced of scientific methods, in order to guarantee that…"
"Oh, modernity indeed!" Miss Hippolyta broke in with a sniff. "When it would be readily apparent to anyone with half a brain that a famous archaeologist such as Father would much prefer to be preserved according to the time-honored traditions of Ancient Greece, if not Ancient Egypt!"
"What, either jammed into a sarcophagus to molder into dust in six months' time, or else swathed up as a mummy to wizen like an apple, and perhaps end up on permanent display in some museum?" Mr Prior scoffed, plainly affronted by the Amazon's scalding evaluation of his handiwork. "My dear Miss Bracewell, I personally warrant that here at Prior & Sons our methods have always met and exceeded the expectations of the loved ones of our dearly departeds. We have always provided our clients with complete satisfaction, and always shall!"
"Ha!" proclaimed the scornful young Amazon. "Then your personal warrant, Mr Priam, is perfectly worthless, for I am most assuredly not satisfied!" She folded her arms and glared down at the undertaker from her full height.
"We meet and exceed the reasonable expectations of reasonable people, Miss Bracewell!" the man lashed back. "And my name…"
"Oh, then I am unreasonable, is that what are you saying, Mr Priam?"
"If the shoe fits, Miss Bracewell," he retorted hotly. "And my name is not Priam!"
"Please, please, Miss Hippolyta, Mr Pri, Pri, uh… Prior! If you will just…" Artie interposed himself between the two, trying with all his stores of charm and persuasion to quell this brewing storm while the remaining Bracewell sister continued to sit in her chair, lace hankie in hand, watching mutely with large, exquisite eyes as the drama played out before her.
It had not been pretty, Artie thought later through gritted teeth as he escorted the pair of bereaved young ladies back to the hotel. Miss Atalanta sat quietly at his side in the carriage, giving an occasional meek sniffle, while Miss Hippolyta raged on over all the injustices that had been heaped upon her in the past few months, beginning with the death of her mother, the disappearance of the Apples one after another, the imposition of ineffectual Secret Service agents into her life, the murder most foul of her beloved father, and now the obtrusion of that simply impossible Mr Priam to boot, a man who no doubt was yet another henchman of the diabolic mastermind behind all these varied evils that had been thrust upon Hippolyta of late. "And you know precisely of whom I speak, Mr Gordon!" she finished grandly, with a withering glare aimed at her elder sister.
"Hippolyta," Artie hissed back warningly. "Remember our agreement: our time isn't up yet."
"Hmph!" she scoffed. "There's not enough time in all the ages for you to prove the truth to be a lie!"
"Especially considering that you already have your mind made up and you'll no doubt reject out of hand whatever facts we uncover," Artie returned.
"It is you, you and your partner, whose eyes are closed to the truth, Mr Gordon. Not I, not I!"
"Wh-wh-what are you talking about?" Atalanta faltered, looking back and forth between the pair of them.
Hippolyta let out a bark of laughter. "Oh, but how well my dear sister has perfected her pose of sweet innocence! You know precisely what I am speaking of, Lana. While you have been batting your big blue eyes at Mr West and Mr Gordon, busily playing the role of an ingénue, I have been working day and night in an attempt to counteract the evil that has been plotted against Father and his work."
Her jaw clenched briefly, and Artie took advantage of her momentary silence to growl warningly, "Miss Hippolyta…"
Her eyes flashed. "The fact that my attempts have apparently failed does not deter me, Mr Gordon! I tell you again, here and now, that if you wish to find the mastermind behind the thefts of the Apples and the death of my father, you need look no farther than…"
"Miss Hippolyta!" Artie snapped. "Not another word! Make that accusation without proof, and you have no idea how much trouble your mouth will bring raining down upon your head! And now," he added, his voice quieting to its usual volume as their carriage drew up before the hotel, "we're back." He drew a deep breath, exited the cab, helped Atalanta out and found himself on the receiving end of a glare from Hippolyta when he offered her a hand down as well. As the Amazon stormed on into the hotel under her own power, Artie tossed the cabbie a coin, then gave Atalanta a half-hearted smile as he crooked his elbow to her. "Shall we go up?" he said.
Once all three of his passengers had disappeared into the building, the cabbie caught the eye of a fellow casually loitering around a nearby corner, then distinctly nodded his head in the direction of the trio he had just dropped off. The loiterer nodded back in response, then disengaged himself from holding up the side of the building and headed up the stairs and into the hotel on the trail of Artemus Gordon and the Bracewell girls.
End of Act Two