It was then that Doughnut came bouncing into the shop and started to yap.
Lettice yapped back. This went on for quite some time until at last Doughnut had said his piece.
Lettice picked up the little dog and sat down in a chair with him on her lap.
“Toff the Terrible has the lamp locked in a dungeon, threatening to do I don’t know what to it if it won’t open its lid. This is much more serious than I first thought, deary.”
“What else did Doughnut say, old trout?” asked Fidget.
“That his master was a downright bully.”
Doughnut’s complaints were many. Lack of proper walks, shouting, forgetting to feed him, and once, leaving him locked out all night to howl at that huge silver ball in the sky. If things hadn’t looked that jolly from a miniature dachshund’s point of view, then they looked downright terrible for Elvis the Elf. The master had caught him one day near the duck pond and taken away his cloth stick.
“His umbrella, perhaps?” said Fidget.
“Yes, that’s right, deary,” said Lettice.
Elvis had asked for it back, it being a very important kind of stick, but the cloth stick was never returned. Then one day, Doughnut and his master were down by the duck pond when a fiery goblin turned up. His master had barked at the goblin and barked again. He wouldn’t give the cloth stick to the goblin either. The goblin pulled one way and his master the other. That’s when both dog and master shot up into the air. Doughnut landed safely; his master didn’t.
“Where was Elvis all this time?” asked Fidget.
“Tied to the willow tree,” said Lettice, putting Doughnut back on the floor.
Lettice Lovage rummaged in her handbag for her lipstick and blush. She touched up her face in a mirror before snapping shut her handbag and standing up.
“I’m off,” she said.
“Where to?” asked Fidget.
“Where do you think, deary?” she said. “I can’t leave my nephew and Emily Vole to fight Toff the Terrible on their own. This is one murderous goblin we are dealing with. He must be stopped at all costs. And I still want a word with that elf.”
Chapter Twenty-three
It was growing dark by the time Buster and Emily arrived at the goblin den. They had made a plan to outwit Toff the Terrible without using magic as, sad to say, neither of them had been able to work out the riddle of the sword.
“Maybe there’s no riddle to work out. Maybe we only think it’s magical because it came from Miss String’s magical chest,” said Emily.
The wooden door creaked open, sounding louder than a hundred rusty trumpets.
“That should bring the goblins running,” said Buster.
“I’ll find somewhere to hide,” whispered Emily.
No goblins came.
Buster held his sword out before him and stepped into the middle of the Great Hall as Emily quickly slid behind a smelly sheepskin that was hanging on the wall.
Still no goblins came.
“Come out, come out, wherever you are,” shouted Buster.
But no goblins came out from wherever they were.
In the gloom it was hard to see anything, the hall being only half lit by a hideous chandelier made from deer horns. Hanging from one of the antlers was Elvis’s green hat.
Under the chandelier was a long wooden table piled high with dirty plates, goblets, twisted-up sweet wrappers, and half-eaten packets of cereal. The benches on both sides of the table had been knocked over. Buster was about to go farther into the den when the light went on and he found that he was surrounded on all sides by goblins.
“Got you!” shouted Toff the Terrible, and raised his dagger. “This time, you are dead fairy meat!” he roared.
“This time”? Emily thought. What does he mean by “this time”? The sheepskin made her want to sneeze. She pinched her nose and waited for an opportunity to make her move.
In a tight situation, Buster was good at thinking on his feet—and this was one of the tightest situations he had been in for ages.
“If you’re determined to kill me,” he said, “couldn’t you at least do it fairly and squarely with a good, swashbuckling fight?”
“I could just kill you with this dagger,” said Toff the Terrible.
Which was true.
“But where’s the fun in that?” said Buster.
“Mmm, you have a point,” said Toff. “I do like a good fight to the death, especially if it’s toe-curlingly grim.” He turned to one of the Baddies. “Bring me my sword,” he ordered.
“No magic tricks, mind you,” said Buster, seeing the size of Toff’s sword. “Just a good old-fashioned fight.”
“Agreed,” said Toff the Terrible.
“Also,” added Buster, “if I win, I want Elvis the Elf and the lamp back.”
Toff the Terrible started to laugh.
“If you win? Now, that’s funny.”
Toff the Terrible had no style when it came to sword fighting. He was all roars and grunts. His main line of attack was to lift his weapon high over his head and try to bring it down on top of Buster, just as you would a fly swatter on a fly. Fortunately, Buster was faster and nimbler.
It didn’t take him long to wrong-foot Toff the Terrible, who slipped on a half-eaten chocolate. Buster felt he had the situation under control.
All the goblins were gathered around the fight, egging on their boss. Emily knew this was her best chance to slip away. She ran silently down the passage until she came to a stone spiral staircase.
The thing about goblins is they don’t play fair. The second it looked as if Buster was winning, Toff the Terrible’s sword turned into a serpent with a two-pronged tongue. It appeared determined to gobble Buster up.
“You cheat!” shouted Buster, as the snake lashed out at him.
“Hee hee hee,” laughed Toff the Terrible. “This will be the end of you!”
Buster fought off the creature, managing to land a fatal blow to its head, but Toff’s sword changed again, this time into the tail of a scaly dragon. It swished back and forth with alarming force.
“Pathetic,” said Buster. “Is that the best you can do?”
“No,” said Toff the Terrible, and the dragon’s tail bashed Buster’s sword out of his hand. Toff picked it up. “Just an ordinary sword,” he said. “With no magic.”
Then something extraordinary happened, something Buster hadn’t been expecting. The sword turned to ice in Toff the Terrible’s hand, and he began to freeze. Even his beard turned frosty. Toff the Terrible instantly threw the sword on the ground and stood well back. The goblin leader looked terrified.
“Where did you get this?” he asked.
“It once belonged to a knight who wore green socks,” said Buster.
“A knight who wore green—”
He was interrupted by a voice, a voice that both Toff the Terrible and Buster knew and feared.
“Cooeee—are you there, deary?”
Chapter Twenty-four
Lettice Lovage stood at the doorway of the Great Hall, wrapped in a puffer coat and swinging her handbag.
“All this trudging through the snow,” she complained, as she took off her coat. “I don’t know why goblins have to live in dens. It’s beyond me. No modern conveniences—so yesterday.”
Toff the Terrible stared at her, openmouthed. She delved into her handbag for her magic wand.
“And not even a hook to hang my coat on.”
She flicked her wand, and instantly her coat was hanging on an invisible coat hanger. She flicked her wand again, and there she was, dressed in a glimmering golden gown, a crown on her head, her wings iridescent. Slowly at first, she grew taller and taller—so tall that her head touched the beams of the Great Hall.
Toff the Terrible gulped, for Lettice Lovage wasn’t your average common or garden fairy. No, she was a fairy godmother, and you don’t become a fairy godmother without possessing considerable powers. Golden coaches, glass slippers, and Prince Charmings are all very well, b
ut they are the pretty part of the job. When faced with a goblin den, pretty is forgotten, along with the glass slipper.
Lettice waved her wand, and all the goblins were pinned to the back wall of the Great Hall, their knobbly knees shaking.
“Where is Emily Vole?” demanded Lettice.
“She went to find Elvis the Elf and the magic lamp,” said Buster.
Lettice waved her wand again, and Emily appeared, cradling the magic lamp, its arms and legs all floppy. The elf stood beside her, his finger bandaged and his precious umbrella clutched in his other hand.
Emily, speechless, stared up at the amazing apparition that was Lettice Lovage.
“What happened?” said Buster.
“I’m not sure,” said Emily. “I found the dungeon, looked through the bars, and there they were. The lamp said, ‘Oh, sweet mistress,’ and then just keeled over.”
“Oh, what a mess,” said Elvis. “Now I’ve murdered the lamp as well.”
“No, you haven’t,” said Buster. “It’s just fainted.”
The lamp began to come to.
“Tell me, sweet mistress, I am safe,” it said, lifting a hand to its lid. Glancing up, it saw Lettice Lovage towering over them and passed out again.
“What have you to say for yourself, Elvis Elf?” asked Lettice.
“I’m very sorry. I am terribly sorry,” he said. “I did wrong.”
“Yes,” agreed Lettice. “You, deary, are a stupid, half-baked, foolish numbskull of an elf.”
“Hold on, Auntie,” said Buster. “That’s a bit steep.”
“However you put it, there is still an elf at the bottom of this case,” said Lettice.
“Yes, but…” Buster didn’t finish what he was saying.
“How many wishes did you hand out?” Lettice asked the elf.
“I can’t remember—it’s all such a blur,” said Elvis. “Oh, what a mess.”
“Hee hee,” laughed Toff the Terrible, who enjoyed seeing other people being told off.
“Quiet, you snot-filled goblin!” Lettice seemed to grow even bigger.
“Toff the Terrible, you are charged with the murder of Sir Walter Cross, ruining Mr. Rollo’s business, and making one humongous mess of Pan Smith’s wedding arrangements.”
“May I interrupt you, Aunt Lettice?” said Buster.
“Yes, deary, go ahead.”
“Toff the Terrible, you also stole the magic lamp with the intention of installing a genie.”
“I didn’t. I wouldn’t. I couldn’t get its lid off.”
“I know what you were up to,” said Buster. “I know the spell. By putting Elvis’s supercharged umbrella inside the magic lamp, you hoped to conjure up a genie who would make you all-powerful.”
“None of it is my fault. Look, if anyone should be charged with these crimes, it’s—”
“Silence!” roared Lettice, and her voice rumbled so loudly around the Great Hall that a huge piece of plaster fell from the ceiling and landed at Toff the Terrible’s hairy feet.
Lettice turned to her nephew. “Be a love—put your sword on Toff’s shoulder.”
“No, no,” said Toff. “Please, pretty please … spare me. Anything but that!”
“Anything but what?” asked Buster.
“He went blue when he touched it, didn’t he, deary? Started to freeze,” said Lettice.
“Yes,” said Buster.
“The first stage, deary, of being turned to stone,” said his aunt.
“Stone?” repeated Buster.
“Fidget gave you the Sword of Justice,” said Lettice. “Didn’t he tell you?”
“No,” said Buster, looking at it, impressed. “Just something about green socks.”
“Yes, deary, and the Sword of Justice has found Toff the Terrible guilty as charged and will turn him into stone for a hundred years. Just rest it on the goblin’s shoulder, and we are done and dusted.”
“What about the Band of Baddies?” asked Buster.
“Stone for the lot of them, I say,” said Lettice. “I’ll sell them to a garden center.”
The goblins all began to wail.
“Spare us, please, please!”
“Quiet,” said Lettice. “Quiet! There is an or.”
“An or?” whimpered Toff the Terrible, nibbling the end of his beard. “What kind of or?”
Lettice sighed and returned to her normal size.
“Or,” she said, “you work in the community.”
“You what?” said Toff.
“It’s simple, deary. It means that I put a spell on these woods so that you can’t leave. Instead you will have to work.”
“Work!” moaned Toff the Terrible. “Me, work? Work at what?”
“You and the Band of Baddies will look after the woods, pick up rubbish, and clear away dog poo. And be kind to children, for they will be able to see you.”
“No, no,” wailed Toff the Terrible. “Isn’t there another or to be had?”
“No. The choice is yours. Garden gnomes or pooper scoopers.”
Toff the Terrible and the Band of Baddies huddled together in a corner to discuss their options.
“Well done, Auntie,” said Buster.
Lettice looked at him. “You didn’t do so badly yourself,” she said. “Come here and give me a kiss.”
And it was then, just as his aunt was about to plant a kiss on his cheek, that to everyone’s surprise, Buster vanished into thin air.
“A pooper scooper it is,” said a mournful Toff the Terrible.
Chapter Twenty-five
Fidget was minding the shop when he noticed one of the keys rushing to and fro. It jumped up and down near the curious cabinets as if it was trying to reach the top drawer. Gingerly, Fidget went to see if he could help. The key seemed relieved to see him. It climbed onto his paw and waited to be lifted up. Only when it was near the drawer it wanted did it jump into a keyhole, head first, its little legs sticking out. Then with a huge sigh, it turned itself in the lock.
The next thing happened so suddenly that it was a bit of a blur. Fidget saw an incredibly bright light spring from the drawer itself—so bright, in fact, that it half blinded him. When he could see straight again, there was Buster. He had appeared from nowhere, surrounded by a silver haze. It took quite a few moments to work out that what he was seeing was Buster Ignatius Spicer with wings.
“You’ve got them back, my dear old shrimp!” shouted Fidget.
At that moment, they were interrupted by the sudden arrival of Lettice, Elvis, and Emily, who was carrying the magic lamp. They skidded through the door, trailing stardust behind them.
As Lettice came to a stop, she saw Buster.
“I thought so, deary,” she said. “I told Emily not to worry. I’m so glad you have your wings back at last.”
“I do,” said Buster, laughing. “I do. I’m now going to be all grown up, just like James Cardwell. You wait and see. In a moment, it will happen.”
They waited. The silver light began to vanish from around Buster, and when the room came back into focus, he found that he was just the same as before. He hadn’t grown up, not by one year, not by one minute.
“Oh,” said Buster, seeing his reflection in the glass. “I’m still eleven.”
“I think, my old mackerels,” said Fidget, taking the lamp from Emily and guiding Lettice and Elvis to the stairs, “we deserve a special celebration tea.”
“There’s no place like home,” the lamp called out feebly.
Emily thought that perhaps she should wait for Buster, so she sat on the counter, dangling her legs and staring out of the shop window. Buster had his back to her. It gave Emily a chance to study his wings. They were small and quite beautiful, with lots of blues and golds in them. She had to admit that they were, without doubt, the most handsome wings she had seen so far.
“I haven’t liked you all that much up to now,” said Buster, at last.
“I know,” said Emily. “Maybe it’s a girl-boy thing.”
“No,�
� said Buster. “It’s because I was jealous of you.”
“Jealous of me?” said Emily, taken aback. “Why?”
“For inheriting this shop, for Fidget being so fond of you. Because you’re a good detective.”
Emily wasn’t sure if she should say anything or not. There was one of those awkward silences that make you think that the room is full of jagged points.
“Do you like me?” Buster asked finally.
“I didn’t at first,” said Emily. “But I sort of do now. I think we make a good team.”
Buster went to the curious cabinet and freed the key from the lock. He set it down on the floor, and it scurried away.
Buster watched it go.
“I must have done something right,” he said, “to have been given my wings back.”
“Yes,” said Emily. “Go on, show me—fly.”
And Buster did, a bit wobbly at first, but soon he got the hang of the thing, whizzing around the shop.
“Woooooo-hooo!” he shouted.
“Wow, that is something,” said Emily as Buster turned somersaults in the air.
He landed next to her on the counter.
“Perhaps,” he said, “being grown up isn’t all it’s cracked up to be.”
“I think you are most probably right,” said Emily. She paused. “I’ve worked out something.”
“What?” asked Buster.
“Birdcage,” said Emily. “It was Toff the Terrible who locked you in the birdcage.”
Buster burst out laughing.
“How did you figure that?”
Emily smiled. “I can’t go giving away all the tricks of the trade. And as for the spell that Toff was trying to use, you spotted it in that huge book in the library.”
“Yes, but I needed you to point out that the lamp was useless without a genie,” said Buster. “You are irritatingly good at being a detective.”
“Come on, you two kippers, tea’s ready,” shouted Fidget.
In the living room, the magic lamp was sitting propped up on cushions, a blanket over its knees, holding a cup of steaming hot chocolate. It was telling the keys all about the awful time it’d had of it.
Three Pickled Herrings: Book Two Page 7