The Adventure of the Travertine Nose - Part XII

Finally Naked! You rinse the soapy debris of three days into the sudsy lather of the bubble bath and pat yourself dry by the fire. You can still hear Lady Rackrent's off-pitch singing through the doors, but you're not bothered. Maybe she'll lose her voice and subsequently have less to say at dinner. You hope the old bird will fall asleep early, so you can show Basil that hole in the floor.
SO the black dress with peach ruffles must be in one of those boxes, since you've been commanded to wear a gown. You're feeling a little like a kept woman, or a geisha girl-- and the feeling is actually quite nice. You open a box... ah! The black dress. You dance with it, circling the rug. You feel like a different person. A clean person. Basil, waiting for you at the bottom of the stairs, gives a wolf whistle.
"Where's your sketchbook?" he asks, suddenly all business.
You run back upstairs and grab it. Basil shows you into the parlor where Lay Rackrent is stretching her hamburger-textured legs out on a chaise lounge. The nose is on an ornate table between the two coaches. You sit beside Basil and pretend to contemplate the nose studiously. Lady Rackrent wants to know what you think of her nose.
"Well," you laugh, "It's clearly the finest severed nose I've ever seen."
Lady Rackrent seems satisfied. She makes it clear that she believes the nose has great value. And even if it doesn't, she's determined to return it to the owner's face. Basil shows her your work from the Royal Museum. She marvels over your sketches; particularly fascinated by the floating noses in the margins.
"Super, my dear," she drools,flipping. "Super..."
"Califragilisticespialidocious?" you offer.
"Indeed," she nods, not listening. "My dear I would like to commission you."
"Commission me?" you parrot. You've had just about enough bizarre commissions for one vacation.
"Yes. I want you to paint my portrait. I will pay handsomely of course. I will wear my pink hat and I would like my poor deceased Grover," she points to a stuffed ferret, "to appear quite lifelike on my lap. Will you do it?"
You're mute. But she takes your silence for agreement.
"Wondrous!" she squeals.
Two Rays enter. At least that little mystery is solved. There are twin Ray/Roys. You feel that the stars are aligning and the universe is falling back into order. Roy and Ray show you into the dining. It dwarfs you to the size of an ant. There are already rolls and shrimp cocktails at your three setting. Lady Rackrent stuffs two shrimps in her mouth at once and spits out the tails. She wants to know when you will start her portrait.
"In the morning."
Basil coughs.
"I mean the afternoon."
Lady Rackrent doesn't awake in the morning, so the afternoon suits her just fine. She's so pleased with you, she insists that you keep the nose in your room. For inspiration. One great work of art can inspire another, she believes. You cordially agree and accept he nose. It's also a wonderful knife rest.
As soon as dinner is over, Lady Rackrent, with an ostentatious display of fatique (and ham) announces she's going to rest for her sitting the following afternoon. The second she leaves, you and Basil turn to each other eagerly.
"What are you doing now? Do you want to work with me on the nose?" Basil asks.
"I forgot to tell you!" you squeak, "I found a trap door in my room!"
You win. Basil runs for his flashlight and the two of you tiptoe upstairs. The yawning black hole is still open, just the way you left it. Basil hurls himself down the stairs and then reaches up a hand you help you down. He flashes the light around the massive cellar space. You shiver.
"I just got such a bad feeling about this," you tell him, one foot on the ladder to retreat. As the flashlight beam illuminates the corners of the room, you are seeing a graveyard of junk. Rusted garden tools, broken bicycles, busted statues... "Statues!"
"Exactly," Basil agrees, focusing the light on a travertine god with no nose. "GO get that nose!"
You shimmy back up the ladder and into your suite. You grab the nose off your bedside table and scurry back down into the pit.
"You can do it," he says, graciously.
"No, I want you to," you say, handing him the nose. "It's your project. I'm painting Grover."
Excited and boyish, he grabs the nose. You make a drum roll while he hand reaches with exquisite slowness toward the face. Then footsteps. The sounds of rocks scraping. And the trap door falling back into place.
"It doesn't fit," he says, in the near blackness.
"Basil!" you scream. "We're trapped!"

Nice one. Tomorrow you'll find out whether you've survived long enough to warrant another installment.