Atticus Claw On the Misty Moor

by Jennifer Gray

  ‘Hooray!’ said Lady Jemima in the same voice Inspector Cheddar had used at the station to mean exactly the opposite. ‘Let me see.’

  Callie handed her a piece of paper. Lady Jemima read from the list. Her voice rose steadily towards a shriek.

  ‘We put the last one in for you, Dad,’ said Michael, ‘as you’re so good at karate.’

  ‘How good?’ demanded Lady Jemima.

  ‘Yellow belt,’ said Inspector Cheddar proudly, doing a few chops. He put his notebook on the table and grabbed the piece of paper out of Lady Jemima’s hands. ‘Throwing the cheese!’ he crowed. ‘I’ll be ace at that too. Who’s the reigning champion?’

  ‘Debs,’ said Mrs Cheddar, reading from the most recent programme. ‘She won everything last year except the hairiest sporran competition. Don won that.’

  ‘I need to get practising,’ Inspector Cheddar said feverishly. He turned to Lady Jemima. ‘Do you have a spare cheese in the kitchen I can use?’

  ‘How am I supposed to know?’ Lady Jemima shouted.

  Everyone looked at her in surprise. A deep crinkly frown was etched on her forehead.

  Lady Jemima smoothed it away frantically with her fingertips. ‘What I meant was how am I supposed to … er … throw … er … against someone as good as you!’

  ‘Ah,’ said Inspector Cheddar. He gave her knee a friendly pat. ‘I’ll bet you’re really good!’ he said.

  ‘Yes, well …’ Lady Jemima brushed him off. She shot a look at Peregrine and jumped off the sofa. ‘It’s time to get rid of you.’

  ‘Sorry?’ said Inspector Cheddar.

  ‘Ha ha! I mean it’s time to get the … er … kids some … er … stew!’ babbled Lady Jemima. ‘They must be starving, poor things. I’ll ask Don to see if we’ve got any in the fridge. Then you can all go home and eat it together and start practising for the party games. Come, Peregrine!’

  She seems very keen for us to leave! thought Atticus. He wondered if anyone else had noticed. Unfortunately no one seemed to have. Even the kids were too taken up with the Hogmanay party plans to recognise that Lady Jemima Dumpling was behaving very strangely indeed. They followed her out of the drawing room.

  ‘This way!’ Lady Jemima led them down the stairs with Peregrine on her outstretched hand. ‘Form a crocodile. Hurry up!’

  Atticus was last to leave the room. He glanced around to see if he could see anything that would give a clue as to Lady Jemima’s oddness.

  The table was littered with teacups. (Lady Jemima’s had an imprint of red around the rim from her lipstick.) Apart from that there was a glossy magazine, a shopping list of expensive furry things (and extra-furm face filler, whatever that was) and a small black leather notebook.

  Inspector Cheddar must have left it behind! thought Atticus. He collected the notebook and knotted it carefully in his handkerchief to give to the Inspector later.

  Callie popped her head around the door. ‘Come on, Atticus,’ she said. ‘Lady Jemima is waiting for you!’

  Atticus took one last look around the room. He would have liked to spend a bit more time there snooping about – in the desk drawer, for instance. It was bulging with papers. If Lady Jemima did have anything to hide, there might be a clue in there. And Atticus hadn’t forgotten how to be a cat burglar – he could easily unpick that lock. He padded over to the desk.

  ‘What is it?’ asked Callie. ‘What are you doing?’

  Atticus hesitated. He didn’t want Callie to think he’d started being a cat burglar again. She might tell Inspector Cheddar.

  ‘Oh, I get it!’ To Atticus’s surprise, Callie giggled. ‘It’s a game! We can pretend to be real spies. I can use the secret spy camera in my wristwatch. Shhh!’ She closed the door quietly.

  It wasn’t a game, but it didn’t matter. At least he’d get to see the contents of the desk. Atticus reached out a claw. CLICK! The lock gave way.

  Callie pulled the drawer open. She took out some papers and carefully photographed the pages with the spy camera. Atticus stole a glance at them. They looked much more boring than he’d hoped: lots of technical drawings, close-packed columns of numbers, and a folder entitled ‘Proposed Redevelopment of Biggnaherry Castle’ containing pages and pages of tiny writing.

  ‘This is great practice for when I’m a spy!’ said Callie, putting the papers back as they were. ‘Thanks, Atticus.’

  Atticus managed to mask his disappointment with a feeble purr. He clicked the lock back in place and jumped down from the chair. It was then that he saw the overflowing waste-paper bin. He removed one of the little pieces of card from it and popped it in the fold of his neckerchief with the notebook. Hopefully Mimi or Bones would know what it was. Then he followed Callie out of the room.

  ‘Goodbye, goodbye, goodbye, good riddance!’

  Lady Jemima watched impatiently as everyone got back in the jeeps.

  ‘Are you sure you’ll be all right?’ asked Inspector Cheddar. ‘I really don’t mind staying.’

  ‘Of course I will, you nosy beggar,’ shouted Lady Jemima.

  ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘I mean, of course I will, you darling Cheddar,’ Lady Jemima corrected herself.

  ‘All right, then, but phone if you need me.’ Inspector Cheddar lifted his foot on to the step of the jeep.

  Peregrine gave a loud screech.

  ‘What now, Peregrine?’ asked Lady Jemima.

  Peregrine flew to the ground. He opened his beak in a savage pose, hunched his wings, crept slowly along the gravel and nipped Inspector Cheddar on the heel.

  ‘Ah yes,’ said Lady Jemima, ‘good thinking, Peregrine.’ The falcon resumed its perch on her outstretched hand. ‘Yoo hoo!’ she called after Inspector Cheddar. He turned around. ‘Can I borrow your bedsocks?’ she asked.

  ‘Pardon?’ said Inspector Cheddar.

  ‘I said can I borrow your bedsocks. I need them to … er … keep the draught out,’ said Lady Jemima. ‘The weather forecast is for severe draughts under the … er … duvet tonight.’

  Atticus listened through the window of the other jeep. Severe draughts under the duvet? That didn’t sound like something the weather forecaster would say. Why on earth couldn’t Lady Jemima use her own bedsocks to keep out the draughts under her duvet? On the other paw, he thought, they might all be wet from soaking up the leaks from the roof.

  ‘Here you are.’ Inspector Cheddar handed over the bedsocks. They were the ones Mrs Tucker had given him for Christmas. He sniffed at them. ‘They pong a bit, I’m afraid,’ he said, wrinkling his nose. ‘I haven’t got round to washing them yet and I do have a problem with sweaty feet.’

  Yuk! thought Atticus.

  ‘Perfect!’ sang Lady Jemima.

  Inspector Cheddar got into the jeep and the cars pulled away.

  Lady Jemima waved the visitors off and hurried back into the castle.

  ‘Well done, Peregrine,’ she said. ‘That idiot Ian Larry Barry gave me such a headache I almost forgot he claims to be a Dumpling. We need to make sure he never comes back here again. I’m not sharing that gold with anyone, except you, of course, and that’s final.’ She threw the bedsocks on the floor. ‘You know what to do, Peregrine.’

  The falcon fluttered elegantly down and collected one of them in his claws.

  ‘Good boy.’ Lady Jemima’s face lit up in a malicious smile. ‘Now go and give it to Chomper.’

  At Crow Brigade Army Training Camp it was dinnertime. The recruits were sitting in groups around a campfire. The training exercise that afternoon had been called ‘Eat or Starve’. The object was to dive-bomb and catch the small birds and rodents that lived on the moor and cook them for tea. But Thug and Slasher hadn’t caught anything. That’s why they were sitting down to boiled woodlouse while all the other members of the Crow Brigade were tucking into mouse kebabs.

  ‘I don’t know how they can live with themselves!’ Thug said in disgust as he watched a jackdaw tear a chunk of meat off a wooden skewer and gulp it down. ‘I mean, woodlice are
okay – I don’t mind eating them – but a cute little creature like that? It’s like eating your mum!’ He shuddered. ‘I’d rather eat my own poo.’

  ‘Well, I wouldn’t!’ Slasher grumbled. He scooped up a beakful of woodlice and chewed on it. CRUNCH. CRUNCH. CRUNCH. He spat out the shells. ‘Just cos you didn’t want to catch a mouse didn’t mean you had to belly-flop me every time I got close,’ he said crossly.

  ‘I wasn’t belly-flopping you,’ said Thug with dignity. ‘I was practising my dive-bombing like what the Sergeant Major showed us and I just happened to land on your back. Besides,’ he added grandly, ‘I’ve got principles.’

  ‘And I’ve got fleas,’ Slasher opened one wing and flapped at Thug. A cloud of black specks hopped out of his wingpit and descended on Thug’s head.

  ‘That’s not very hygienic,’ said Thug, picking the fleas off and pinging them at the fire.

  ‘Serves you right!’ Slasher took another beakful of woodlice.

  ‘Oi!’ said Thug. ‘Leave some for me!’ He gave Slasher a push towards the fire. ‘Mind my Arthur-itis!’ Slasher squawked as he twisted over on his hooked foot.

  It was Thug’s turn to take a huge slurp of woodlice. ‘Poo you,’ he said rudely.

  Slasher gripped him by the wings.

  ‘Chaka-chaka-chaka-chaka-chaka-chaka!’

  ‘Chaka-chaka-chaka-chaka-chaka-chaka!’

  ‘FIGHT! FIGHT! FIGHT! FIGHT! FIGHT!’ the other Corvids chorused.

  ‘Pack it in!’ The shadow of the Sergeant Major fell over them. ‘I won’t have insubordination in the ranks!’

  ‘Insu-birdy what?’ asked Thug.

  ‘He means not doing what you’re told,’ Slasher explained.

  ‘How about I throw you in the loch to cool off?’ The Sergeant Major grabbed them both by the neck.

  ‘But I can’t swim!’ Thug said.

  ‘Good!’ said the Sergeant Major. ‘Then you’ll drown.’ He began to march them away.

  ‘Leave them to me,’ thundered a voice the magpies knew.

  ‘Yes, sir.’ The Sergeant Major dropped the magpies.

  ‘Jimmy!’ Thug and Slasher rejoiced.

  ‘Squadron Leader Magpie to you.’ Jimmy Magpie landed beside them.

  Jimmy Magpie looked bigger than when Thug and Slasher had last seen him. His feathers were smooth and glossy and the luminous green-and-blue tinges to his tail and wings gleamed in the occasional moonlight. Thug and Slasher forgot their quarrel. They exchanged cunning grins. Life on the misty moor seemed to be suiting their boss. And that probably meant there were shiny things not far away.

  The Sergeant Major was still watching.

  ‘Come over here where I can beak you up,’ Jimmy ordered. He led the way to a quiet spot out of earshot of the other birds. Thug and Slasher followed obediently.

  ‘You not really gonna beak us up, are you, Jimmy?’ asked Slasher.

  ‘No.’ Jimmy beckoned them close. ‘I’ve got more news about the treasure.’

  The three birds went into a huddle.

  ‘It’s like this …’ Jimmy told Thug and Slasher the story about the Roman gold. When he came to the part about the Cat Sith, Thug shook his head. ‘I dunno, Jimmy. I’ve already got a bald tail,’ he said. ‘I don’t want my head ripped off as well. I won’t be able to see where I’m going.’

  ‘It’s not real, you dodo,’ said Jimmy. ‘It’s just a story the wildcats put about after Domplagan died to stop anyone else going after the treasure and spoiling the moor.’

  ‘So how are we going to find the treasure?’ asked Slasher.

  ‘The wildcats are the only ones who know where it’s hidden,’ said Jimmy. ‘The Crow Brigade’s been hired to catnap one of them. Then the Wing Commander’s going to hang it up by the tail and peck it till it tells.’

  ‘Brilliant!’ breathed Thug. ‘I wish it was Atticus Claw he was going to peck,’ he said a little sadly.

  ‘Well, it isn’t,’ said Jimmy. ‘Claw’s tucked up in Littleton-on-Sea stuffing his face with Christmas pudding. And be warned – the wildcat may look like your average tabby but it will mince you. The Wing Commander says they’re wild – real wild. That’s why he needs the Crow Brigade. They’re the only birds tough enough to do the job.’ He prodded Thug’s gut. ‘If I were you two I’d keep out of the way when the op starts and leave it to the pros. Only come out when they’ve got it tied up.’

  ‘Do we all get a share of the treasure?’ asked Slasher. He nodded towards the feasting birds and added boldly, ‘Cos I’ve been thinking, Jimmy, if this lot found out we were trying to double-cross them, they’d slice us. Maybe we’d be better just taking our cut and going home.’

  For once Jimmy didn’t tell him off for being a coward. ‘I wouldn’t mind doing that,’ he agreed. ‘The problem is there is no cut. We’re not going to get any gold.’

  ‘How come?’ asked Thug.

  ‘Because the Wing Commander’s working for a human.’ Jimmy Magpie spat the word out. The magpies hated humans. It wasn’t just Thug’s mum who’d ended up under the wheels of an ice-cream van; over the years quite a lot of their friends had become roadkill too. ‘And this human, she wants it all for herself.’

  ‘Typical!’ said Slasher. ‘Greedy pig.’

  ‘If she gets all the gold, what are we gonna get?’ asked Thug.

  ‘Bingo chips,’ said Jimmy.

  ‘What?’ Thug spluttered. ‘But they’re not even shiny!’

  ‘We might win,’ said Slasher reasonably, ‘in which case we’d get shiny coins. I quite like the occasional flutter,’ he admitted.

  ‘You won’t win,’ said Jimmy. ‘The human will make sure of that.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘By having you all killed,’ said Jimmy. ‘She’s got a pet panther called Chomper. You lot are its next meal. The only ones who get to go home when all of this is over are the officers.’

  Thug began to sob. He got down on his knees and grabbed Jimmy by the ankles. ‘Don’t leave us, Jimmy!’ he begged.

  Jimmy kicked him off. ‘I’m not going anywhere until I get my gold,’ he said. ‘Now give me a minute. I need to think.’

  Thug and Slasher waited quietly.

  Jimmy’s eyes rested upon the other members of the Crow Brigade. Most of the birds had finished their meals. They were sitting around the campfire telling dirty jokes and picking their beaks. He pointed to the vagabond birds. ‘Slasher, what was it you said just now about what would happen if we tried to double-cross them?’ he asked.

  ‘I said they’d slice us, Boss,’ Slasher replied.

  ‘Hmmm.’ Jimmy nodded thoughtfully. His eyes glittered. ‘That’s given me an idea,’ he said. He drew Thug and Slasher back into the shadows. ‘Now listen closely, boys,’ he whispered, ‘this is what we have to do. Chaka-chaka-chaka-chaka-chaka …’ Very quietly he began to chatter the plan to his gang.

  At Don and Debs’ cottage everyone was preparing for an early night, except for Inspector Cheddar who was still outside practising throwing cheese in readiness for the Hogmanay party. Atticus hadn’t had a chance to give the Inspector his notebook yet. He’d been so tired what with the early start at the train station and the trip to Biggnaherry Castle that he’d fallen asleep in front of the fire as soon as they got back to the cottage, with the notebook still tucked into his handkerchief.

  ‘Goodnight, everyone,’ the children called.

  ‘Goodnight.’

  Atticus followed Mimi, Callie and Michael up the stairs to their bedroom, the notebook banging against his chest. They crept silently past Great-Uncle Archie’s door. They hadn’t seen the old man all day. Debs said he’d been catching up with his soap operas.

  Their room was in the eaves. It contained narrow twin beds for the children. At the foot of each bed lay two soft blankets for the cats. Callie and Michael brushed their teeth at the sink and got into bed.

  ‘I can’t wait for the Hogmanay party,’ said Callie sleepily.

  ‘Me neither,’ said Michael.

>   ‘Do you think everyone from the village will come?’

  ‘I think so. Mum said she would organise buses so that no one had to cross the moor on their own. Then they won’t have to be scared of the Cat Sith.’

  ‘I wonder if that creature’s still out there.’ Callie shivered.

  ‘I expect so,’ Michael said. ‘But don’t worry. Mrs Tucker said it can’t hurt us as long as we stay with the grown-ups.’

  They fell asleep. Atticus removed the notebook from his handkerchief. The card he had retrieved from the bin in Lady Jemima’s study fell out of it.

  ‘Mimi,’ he said, ‘do you know what this is?’

  Mimi looked at it carefully. Printed on the card were seven small silver metallic squares set out in a line. Three of them had been scratched off revealing different numbers beneath. At the top of the card were the words ‘You Bet!’; at the bottom, ‘Win £10,000! Instantly’; and on the back, ‘You must be over 18 to play’. There was also a long telephone number.

  ‘It’s a scratch card,’ she said. ‘You pick three squares. If the numbers under the silver coating match, then you win £10,000.’

  ‘That sounds good,’ said Atticus.

  ‘No, it’s not good,’ Mimi replied seriously. ‘It’s gambling. You have to pay to buy the card and the chances of you winning are virtually none so you actually lose money. Where did you get this anyway?’

  ‘I found it in the bin under Lady Jemima’s desk,’ Atticus replied. ‘There were lots of them.’

  ‘How many is lots?’

  Atticus shook his head. ‘I don’t know. I didn’t have time to count them. But it was overflowing. There must have been hundreds in there.’

  ‘Sounds like Lady Jemima’s got a gambling problem,’ said Mimi.

  ‘You mean she can’t stop?’ asked Atticus.

  Mimi shrugged. ‘Lots of people get addicted. Then they lose all their money. Maybe that’s why Biggnaherry Castle is in such a mess. She’s broke.’