by B G Denvil
“Maybe he likes me. He didn’t like Whistle.”
“Then undoubtedly this freak is male,” Peg decided. “But what has your pleasant evening got to do with Whistle’s death?” Then, after a very brief pause, she added, “I shall have to use my own magic, dear, and do what one day in the future they’ll call hypnotism.”
Rosie was dubious. “And what does hipnotodism do? I refuse to stand on my head or bury myself with Whistle or anything else horrible.”
“You just sit there quietly, like the sweet little child you are.” Peg grinned at her. She stood, flapped both arms beyond the confines of her cape, stared up for a moment into the clouds and their golden linings, clicked her fingers on both hands and looked down on Rosie’s questioning expression. The crows were squawking, and one, interested, swept down to sit on Peg’s shoulder. She pushed it away and pointed one finger at Rosie.
Immediately, Rosie closed her eyes.
“Now what,” Peg asked in a dulcet command, “happened to you yesterday evening between leaving the Juggler and Goat and arriving back to sleep in your bedchamber? Please explain. I wish to hear a nice long story.” When complete silence followed, Peg added, “Please start from the beginning, and please speak aloud.” One final thought occurred. “And what did you do with all those lovely ruby and pearl hair pins?”
Flopping a little sideways, Rosie spoke as though chanting a lesson from the bible. “I found myself walking through a forest. Nice green trees and a warm breeze. I stepped on bluebells. Down the slope, there was a stream. A frog looked at me and made a funny noise. Then it splashed back into the water. I walked on. A stag watched me, but no one else was around. So I took off my smock and walked into the stream. It was chilly but felt nice, so I sat down, and the ripples came over my shoulders. The stag came over, but I told it to go away. Then it told me I was pretty, and I said, thank you! The frog was on my knee. It said it was a prince in disguise, and promised to give me pretty new clothes.
“When I climbed out of the water, the stag blew all over me with his nice warm breath until I was dry, and the frog hopped over to a neat folded pile of clothes. I started to put them on, and they were very pretty and special. I thanked the frog and the stag most politely. ‘Now you’re a princess,’ the frog told me. ‘Go and sit on your throne.’ So I did. The clothes were lovely, and as I got dressed, the frog leapt around whistling at me. I walked away into the forest until I saw the nice stone doorstep and recognised it as my throne. So I sat there and felt very comfy.”
Looking up, Peg realised she had an audience. Standing behind the bench, and listening avidly, were Mandrake, Emmeline and Montague, with Harry peeping from behind. On the other side stood Alice and Lemony, whilst staring down from the windows above were every other member of The Rookery. There were a few crows poking their beaks down as well.
Peg clapped her hands, Rosie woke and sat up, and Alice said, “Make her remember. I want to know more.”
“I remember everything now,” Rosie said, smiling into the sunshine. “It was fun. I must have looked so nice with my hair all specially done and those pretty hairpins. But it got all messed up again in the night. And all the clothes have gone.”
“And the pins?”
“Unfortunately, yes.”
“But,” frowned Mandrake, “you mentioned the frog whistling. I wonder if that means anything.”
“But Whistle never whistled,” Peg murmured.
Rosie shook her now unpinned hair. “And why would Whistle’s ghost give me a nice afternoon out in a place that doesn’t exist?”
It was Kate who found the one remaining hairpin that afternoon. Being the maid, a small drooping female parented by a witch and a wizard many centuries past, but who had unfortunately been born with virtually no magical skills whatsoever, she worked in The Rookery as maid and washer-upper, even though Rosie did most of it anyway. But Kate was making Rosie’s bed, and there, under the pillow, was a bright shining ruby stuck on the end of a silver pin. Sharp, glittery and gorgeous. Kate paused, wondering whether she should steal it, but decided that a household of folk who could read your mind and turn you into a tadpole would not make stealing a safe business after all the mystery, murder and mayhem.
So she trotted off to where Rosie still sat in the garden with Peg and presented it to her. “Under your pillow, mistress.”
Between them Peg and Rosie prodded this unexpected find, dug it into each other with various squeaks and other complaints, pointed it at Whistle’s grave, imbedded it into the grass and finally clutched it while muttering spells. Nothing interesting eventuated from any of the practises, and Peg sighed. “Pretty, my dear, and all yours. Valuable, too, I should think. But it is just an ordinary jewel and offers no unusual insights.”
“Unexpected, though,” decided Rosie. “How many did I have yesterday? Ten? Fifteen? And only this one managed to survive. I feel it has to be special.” She tucked the silver spike through the neck of her smock. “I’ll wait and see if anything happens.”
When Peg trotted into the kitchen for a hot dinner, Rosie ignored her appetite, knowing the dinner would be fairly disgusting anyway, and sat stroking the hat pin stuck into her smock beneath her chin. “I wonder if you could tell me something,” she said aloud. “Tell me – if you have one, your name?”
It had only been one of many possibilities, and she had expected no reply. She was exceedingly startled when a gruff little voice said, “Oswald.”
Jerking around, Rosie quickly saw that she sat alone, and no one else could have supplied that voice, except the ruby pin. So she tingled with excitement and murmured, “And number two, did you come from that forest and that stream where I went yesterday?”
“Of course,” said the voice with an impatient rasp. “What else, for goodness sake. I couldn’t have floated from your chimney, now, could I?”
Magic, Rosie acknowledged, was invariably impatient and fairly bad tempered. She asked, “So number three, why did you stay when all the other pins disappeared?”
“They weren’t real,” said Oswald. “But I’m real, and I came on loan. Loaned, remember! Not a gift.”
“Oh.” Somewhat disappointed, Rosie asked, “And so number four, borrowed from who?”
“Wait and see,” muttered the little gruff voice under her chin. “Now, I’m not here for fun, you know. There’s motive and mystery, and we have to get into it together. Yes, yes, I know, you’re only a fifty, but your friend Peg is an eighty-seven.”
“Eighty-five.”
“Don’t you start arguing with me,” snapped the pin. “If I say she’s an eighty-seven, then that’s what she is. Me – I’m a ninety-nine. So let’s get started.”
“At what?” Rosie was even more confused than usual.
“Finding out who killed me – I mean, Whistle Hobb,” said the ruby pin in a hurry.
Having to wait for Peg to return from the kitchen, Rosie went for a rare walk alone around the garden. Long pebbled paths ran between clipped hedges and a few bushes of meadow sweet, lilac and briar roses. Surrounding this were the varied trees, each holding its own collection of rookery bundles, with the nesting crows content within. Many of the birds were pleasant companions, but at present considered themselves far too busy to waste time chatting with wingless people. One crow, however, flew down to Rosie’s shoulder and peered over to stare at the magical pin.
“Red,” observed Tubbs, who was extremely black himself.
“Of course. It’s a ruby,” Rosie pointed out.
Tubbs risked a quick peck. “Interesting.”
The pin was still thinking of something rude to say when Peg returned, trotting down the garden path with a wide smile.
“Your news first,” Rosie said, her own smile equally as wide as Peg’s. “Then I’ll tell you mine.”
“My news?” Peg looked at Rosie and the crow on her shoulder, and her smile turned to a frown. “None, I’m afraid. Just that dinner was nicer than usual. We had pasties and buttery leeks. Quite pleas
ant.”
“Sit down then,” Rosie told her, “and I’ll be able to relate all mine.” She flicked at Tubbs, who flew off. Then Rosie began. “My dear Peg, let me start with number one.”
Six
Peg was gapping, and her bright black eyes were luminous. “My dear girl,” she said with a vigorous nod, “You will soon double your fifty. This is most interesting and quite amazing. I’ve tottered this somewhat boring country for some years, and no hat pin has ever spoken to me before.”
“And all for me!” Rosie said, breathy with excitement. “Flitting off yesterday, and the ruby hat pin this morning. And I’m just a below average fifty. I always felt a little ashamed of myself, plodding around with a mop and bucket. People looked at me and asked when supper would be ready, or why hadn’t I washed up the spilled wine in the meeting hall or I should go and clean the moss from the front doorstep because it was slippy.”
“You did that yesterday,” Peg said, and regretted it. “No, no, dear. It was all your idea to find whoever killed Whistle – such a sensible kindness. And so the reward is yours. And besides,” Peg added, “whoever told you about just being a fifty?”
“My mother.” Rosie had been ten, the normal age for the test and the following investiture. With a fifty mother and a lowly father who could claim only twenty, Rosie had not expected much, but had hoped and hoped and hoped, and had even asked the great Whistle to help her increase her score.
‘Not something I can do with a little girl,’ he had told her. ‘Lessons afterwards, perhaps, if your mother doesn’t keep you permanently in the kitchen grating the carrots. But there are often surprises. You may have a higher score than you expect.’
Rosie had never been asked to grate a carrot, but she had certainly been partially glued to the kitchen. As an excited little ten-year-old girl, she had hoped and hoped. But her score had been a lowly fifty, as expected.
“How could you have expected more than me, stupid girl?” spat her mother. So no investiture was to follow.
With the sunshine melting away behind the clouds, Peg took Rosie’s elbow, and followed the pebble path back to The Rookery. The birds were busy, swooping and diving while their babies hollered for food, more food and more food. By now most of the well snuggled eggs had hatched, and so each nest held four or five babies, each convinced it was about to starve to death. Mothers, fathers and older siblings answered the call, and all local insects did a quick run. Some of the witches chucked out their unwanted crusts, the occasional edge of burned pastry and a few fishy skins for the crows to find, and Harry Flash studied a whole new idea and invented what appeared to be uncooked frogs’ legs, even though they had never been worn by a single frog. They had popped out of Harry’s upside-down hat.
Rosie and Peg had just arrived at the back door into the kitchen, when a scruffy little fledgling plopped at their feet, having presumably fallen from its nest.
Looking up, dismayed, Rosie waved. “Mistress crow,” she called, “one of the clutch has left home a little early. It certainly can’t fly yet. Who does it belong to?”
The fledgling might not yet be capable of flying, but it was quite skilled at hopping. It was now pecking at Rosie’s toes. A faint but distracted voice tumbled from above. “I have all mine, dear. Four little brats and one egg still to go.”
Another cawed loudly. “I don’t want any more. I have six. Quite enough.”
The third mother crow flapped, zoomed down and regarded the homeless baby. “No, not mine,” she said. “My poor husband Wolfy has a bad wing after trying to catch one of those big mean spiders, and I have to go hunting while he sits on the nest. It’s exhausting. But there’s just one hatchling left to pop out.”
Scooping up the fledgling from the ground, Peg gazed at the irate piece of uncombed fluff in her hand. “You,” she told it, “seem you have dropped out of nowhere. Perhaps I had better adopt you and feed you myself.”
The fledgling hopped up and down, flapped the few scraggy bits of feather it owned and cawed with approval. Rosie nodded vigorously. “I was about to say the same thing,” she said. “Isn’t it sweet.” And with sudden determination the baby hopped from Peg’s hand and onto Rosie’s shoulder. It then proceeded to peck her ear lobe. She refused to admit that this hurt and turned to Peg. “Do you mind?” she asked. “I’d love to keep him.
Peg didn’t mind. “He’s sweet. But I have enough to do.”
Half in and out of the kitchen already, they hurried indoors. Hoping not to be stopped and scalded by her mother, Rosie stuffed the little squirming lump in her apron pocket and ran up the stairs to her own room. Peg, moaning at the stairs, hobbled behind.
“There’s a reason for this,” Peg blurted, sinking down on the bed. “Just as we said a few moments ago. You – my dear – are getting all the attention. Is it possible that you’re being coached?”
“Someone’s trying to make me cleverer than I really am?” Rosie patted the squirming lump in her white linen apron as Peg smiled at the same little lump. It did not exactly look ready to teach anything to anyone.
“Have you seen your father lately?” Peg asked abruptly.
It was a matter of frequent shame. “No.” Rosie shook her head. “He likes to be left alone, you see. Lives a very solitary life, dear Papa.”
“I have a sudden desire to visit him,” said Peg. “Bring Whatsit with you, and we’ll find a few beetles for him. But it’s your father I need to talk with. Alfred Scaramouch, isn’t it? Good.” She raised both hands, fingers ready to click. “Where does this solitary gentleman live, then?”
“I don’t want to call him Whatsit.”
“What?” Peg hiccupped.
“My little baby crow,” said Rosie,
Peg sat back down on the side of the bed. “I have an idea,” she said. “Beatles first, I suppose.”
“My father doesn’t eat beetles.”
Each gazed at the other in confusion. Finally Peg said, “My dear girl, you, me and the baby crow will now visit your father. I think he’s up to something.”
“My lovely sweet father,” Rosie insisted, “would never do anything as disgusting as killing Whistle Hobb. Besides, he’d never manage it.”
“I would never suspect such a thing. Take me to your father. Now,” sighed Peg, “not another word. Let’s fly immediately.”
“I’ve changed my mind about calling my baby Sam,” Rosie murmured to herself. “I think Splodge is better. More suited. He lives in a tree house.”
Peg glared. “So your father has changed his name to Splodge and Sam will live in a treehouse?”
“Try the other way around,” said Rosie. “Look, up there, in the great big ash tree.” She pointed towards the tiny window. “Daddykins built his tree house out there ages ago. I was tiny when father set to and built his house. He’s lived there ever since.”
“Now this,” grinned Peg, “is going to be interesting. I’ve lived here since before the Battle of Agincourt, so why did I never know anything about your father?”
“He’s not very sociable,” Rosie apologised.
“But he’ll let us in?”
Rosie hoped so. “If I remind him that I’m his daughter.”
“Very well,” Peg said. “It’s even higher than most of the crows’ nests, so we might as well leave directly through the window. Can you open it? I’m a little tired of my forehead decorated in purple bruises.”
Rosie obligingly reached outwards, pushing the tiny window wide open on both sides. She stuck her head out, although there was barely enough space, and certainly not enough for her shoulders. “Are you sure?”
“Quite sure,” Peg said. “Now take my hand.”
Without time for breath or blink, Rosie discovered herself sitting on the wide branch of a tree, its new fresh springtime greenery burgeoning all around and smelling of rebirth. Rosie had never sat so enclosed by growth as previous visits to her father had involved her calling him down. The floor of the house sat next to their shoulders, strongly sl
atted and balancing on four ash branches. With a hop as good as Splodge’s, Peg landed on the small porched entrance and knocked on the door.
The knocker was a carved wooden owl, and the porch was held by two carved pillars, a dozen different birds seeming to climb the rigid height. Peg was impressed, lifted the somewhat useless letter box flap and called, “Master Scaramouch, I don’t wish to inconvenience you, but we’ve come for a most important visit. I’m Peg Tipple, and here waiting beside me is your dear daughter Rosie.”
To Rosie’s surprise and relief, the door opened immediately.
Seven
The house looked marvellous, but Alfred Scaramouch did not. His eyes were bloodshot, and he seemed far more exhausted than any wizard had any right to appear.
“Well, well, well.” He rubbed his hands together and smiled through all the wrinkles. “My little girl and her little friend.” His beard, thick, very white, and reaching a little past his waist, was quivering with evident delight. “You are most welcome indeed. Although,” and his voice partially disappeared into his beard, “I am not at my best. Not that I have any idea what my best might be, but this isn’t it. The nesting season, you see.”
Ushering his guests into the one huge room beyond the porch, the old wizard pointed to several slightly broken and tooth marked chairs, inviting them to sit. Then, with a huge exhale, he also sat, crossing his arms and stretching his legs below his long blue robe.
The slight problem with the interesting room was the generous coating of feathers floating down, claw clippings, bits of scraggy nesting materials, bird seed and spiders’ webs. Looking around, it occurred to Rosie that an equally unexpected quagmire of odds and flickers also adorned her father’s beard. She brushed a couple of feathers and a small white mouse from her chair, and addressed her father. “Hello, Papa. I’m so pleased to see you again. It’s been – ages. I can’t remember how long. But I’m not much good at flying upwards, you see. And I don’t think I’d be much good at climbing either. “