Cows In Action 9

by Steve Cole

  “Sir Lawrence Pwee, at your service.” The man bowed stiffly. “Which club member have you come to see?”

  McMoo lowered his voice. “We’d really like to see the ones who have disappeared.”

  Sir Lawrence frowned. “I have tried my best to keep this delicate matter a secret, sir. What do you know of it?”

  “Not nearly enough,” McMoo admitted. “Which is why we’ve come to investigate. So!” He started up the steps to the front door. “Pop inside, shall we?”

  “Just a moment, if you please!” Sir Lawrence looked cross. “This is a private and exclusive club for botanists. No riffraff – and definitely no ladies!”

  Bo’s face darkened. “What?” She marched up to the plant-expert and reached into her pocket. “Maybe this will change your mind about letting me in.” With a flourish she yanked out a piece of her twenty-sixth-century clover and dangled it in front of his startled face. “Ever seen anything like this before?”

  Sir Lawrence was astounded. He took the plant with trembling fingers. “Where . . . where did you find this?”

  Bo snatched back the peculiar plant. “I’ll tell you once you’ve let us inside. Deal?”

  “Yes! Anything. Just let me study that plant!” Sir Lawrence ushered them up the steps and unlocked the front door. But as he pulled it open, a small, red-haired man came rushing out and crashed into them in a wild, shivering panic.

  “Let me pass!” the man cried. “I’ve got to get away. Away, I say!”

  Sir Lawrence grabbed hold of him. “Seymour Bushes, pull yourself together! Whatever has happened?”

  Seymour’s face was white with fear. “It’s the cow,” he whispered. “The Black Cow of Doom is coming to get me like she got all the others. Nothing can stop her. Nothing!”

  Chapter Three

  MOO-DER MOST FOUL

  “‘The Black Cow of Doom’?” Pat looked about in confusion. “There’s a cow in here?”

  “That’s cow-razzzzy!” said Bo, hoping her ringblender hadn’t stopped working.

  “A demon cow!” wailed Seymour. “She left her card. It fell out of my copy of The Times!”

  Bo prised open his fist to reveal a piece of thick paper. Beside a picture of a nasty-looking black cow was a note:

  “Did the other disappearing botanists get a card like this?” asked McMoo.

  “All of them,” Sir Lawrence confirmed. “And sure enough, some time later a supernatural cow appeared to each in his home and snatched him away.”

  McMoo frowned. “People actually saw it?”

  “Oh, yes,” Sir Lawrence said gravely.

  Pat gulped. “So is ‘moo-der’ the same as . . . murder?”

  “I suppose so,” said McMoo. “Only committed by a cow.”

  “Alas!” Seymour cried through chattering teeth. “I am doomed! Doomed to be dragged to the spirit world by a ghostly heifer!”

  “Hush, Seymour, there is a lady present.” Sir Lawrence turned to Bo, “I am so sorry you’ve had to hear such frightful words, my dear.”

  “I’ve heard worse, Larry,” Bo assured him. “Words like ‘pants’, ‘bums’, ‘drippy poos’, ‘udder-rash’—”

  Luckily before Sir Lawrence and Seymour could turn any paler another man came staggering through the hallway towards them. He was short and portly and looked quite unwell.

  “Thank heaven you caught old Seymour,” the man wheezed, holding one hand to his chest. “When he found that card, I was worried he might do himself a mischief – and that so might I, chasing after him!”

  “Professor, Pat, Miss Bonnie, may I present Mr Dicky Hart.” Sir Lawrence sighed. “Aside from Seymour, he’s the club’s only remaining member.”

  “I’m not surprised,” said Bo. “Frankly, this club is a bit rubbish. You should buy a killer sound system and play more R&B.”

  Sir Lawrence, Seymour and Dicky stared at her blankly.

  “But, er, getting back to this strange cow business that we’ve come to investigate,” said Pat quickly. “Seymour, you said this card was in your copy of The Times. Where did that paper come from?”

  “It’s the club’s copy,” said Seymour.

  Dicky clutched at his chest with renewed vigour. “I read it myself this morning, but found no card.”

  “Then someone must have put it there,” McMoo declared. “We must speak to the servants and search the building.”

  “Must we indeed?” Sir Lawrence frowned at McMoo. “I say, sir, you are being rather high-handed.”

  “Better do as he says.” Bo held up the piece of twenty-sixth-century clover and waved it in front of his nose. “It would be a real shame if this wilted before you could study it . . .”

  Sir Lawrence looked longingly at the plant. “Oh, very well,” he sighed. “Dicky, take Seymour back to the drawing room for a stiff drink would you? I’ll gather the servants together.”

  “Right you are,” Dicky wheezed, helping up Seymour. “This way. Slowly.”

  “And don’t worry, Mr Bushes.” Bo flexed her muscles. “Any cow coming after you will have to get through me first!”

  The C.I.A. agents swiftly searched the grand old building from top to bottom. Pat was usually very good at finding things. But they could find no sign of a break-in and not a single trace of a spooky cow.

  Bo sat down crossly in an empty study. “Whoever left that scary card must have run straight outside again.”

  “But Sir Lawrence had to unlock the front door when we came in, remember?” Pat said. “They couldn’t have got out that way.”

  “So they must have taken the tradesmen’s entrance round the back,” said McMoo. “Let’s see if any of the servants spotted an intruder.”

  Pat, Bo and the professor trooped downstairs to the drawing room and pushed open the door. A small gaggle of footmen, butlers and kitchen staff stood smartly in front of Sir Lawrence. Seymour and Dicky were sitting nervously in armchairs. But the agents’ eyes were riveted at once to a short, round woman, bulging out of a long black dress and a white lacy apron . . .

  “I don’t believe it!” Pat groaned.

  The woman looked just like Bessie Barmer!

  Bo gasped and pointed. “It’s her, Sir Larry! Case closed. She did it!”

  The Bessie-lookalike looked shocked. “Beg pardon, miss?”

  “This is Eliza Barmer, my loyal housekeeper,” said Sir Lawrence, outraged. “She has been in my employ for many years.”

  “I bet she did it anyway!” Bo cried.

  “Shhh!” McMoo clamped a hoof over her mouth. “We can’t accuse her just because of who she looks like.”

  Pat shook his head. “How come we always run into her ancestors whichever time we end up in?”

  “Perhaps living so close to the Time Shed has left Bessie’s DNA imprinted on the quantum-flux drive units,” McMoo suggested, “resulting in a gene-generating time transfer to someone in the local population for every age we visit.”

  Bo went cross-eyed. “Eh?”

  “Or maybe it’s just bad luck!” McMoo turned back to Eliza and doffed his hat. “Forgive my niece’s enthusiasm, miss.”

  “Beggin’ your pardon, sir,” a kitchen boy piped up. “Miss Barmer’s been in the kitchen all morning.”

  A young maid nodded. “She’s not been out of our sight, and we’ve not been out of hers.”

  “Everyone in the house has been accounted for,” Sir Lawrence agreed.

  “Then . . .” Eliza put her other hand to her forehead. “That terrible card what Mr Bushes found really was delivered by a ghost!” With a feeble squeal she swooned and fell to the floor with a crash that shook the club to its foundations. Two footmen struggled to lift her onto a sofa and Sir Lawrence offered her smelling salts.

  “Oh, dear.” Seymour jumped up from his chair, wringing his hands. “I have to go. I really have to go at once!”

  “No, Seymour,” said Sir Lawrence. “You’re in danger. You must not go anywhere alone at any time. Ever.”

  “Erm . . .�
�� Seymour blushed. “I mean I have to go – to the lavatory!”

  Eliza almost fainted again, and quickly jammed the smelling salts up her nose.

  “I’ll walk you there, Mr Bushes,” McMoo offered. “Sir Lawrence is right – you need protection at all times.”

  Seymour nodded gratefully and led the way down a passage to some French windows. They opened onto a sunny courtyard crammed full of plants, where a sort of tall wooden shed stood at one end.

  “Of course,” McMoo muttered. “The toilets were kept outside in Victorian times.”

  “Shan’t be a jif,” said Seymour, crossing the courtyard. But scant seconds after he’d closed the door, he wailed in surprise and alarm. “What? Miss Barmer!” He started banging from inside the toilet. “Oh, goodness!”

  McMoo frowned. “What is it, Seymour? What’s wrong?”

  His only reply was a spooky, wailing groan as an eerie figure floated out through the toilet door. Shudders ran down the professor’s spine. The figure had huge, shadowy horns. Red eyes glowed in its black face. A swollen, sinister udder hung down from its body like a set of bagpipes.

  “So you’re the Black Cow of Doom,” breathed McMoo.

  “MOOOO-DERRRRR!” hissed the terrifying spirit-cow as it swirled towards him . . .

  Chapter Four

  A RIGHT ROYAL VISIT

  As the phantom reached out with its smoky hooves, Professor McMoo dived aside and landed painfully on a potted plant. A deafening, spooky-sounding moo echoed around the courtyard and the Black Cow swooped towards him again. Frantically McMoo rolled out of the way – but as he did so, he knocked his top hat against the wall so that the brim jammed down over his eyes.

  “Mr Bushes!” the professor cried, tugging at his hat, unable to see. “Seymour! Are you all right?” At last the headwear came free, and he saw the sinister, shadowy cow growing larger and darker, whizzing around faster and faster in front of the outside toilet . . .

  Then a throaty war-yell rang out. “Get out of it, ghost! It’s time YOU were haunted – by my hooves of fury!” It was Little Bo – flying through the air in a kung-moo leap!

  “No, Bo!” McMoo shouted. “Stay back!”

  But it was too late. Bo went shooting straight through the whirling phantom figure and crashed into the outside loo. The little hut broke apart with a splintering crash and Bo disappeared under a pile of planks. The ghostly visitor carried on whirling and whizzing about as if nothing had happened.

  Pat, Sir Lawrence and Eliza Barmer appeared at the French windows, closely followed by Dicky Hart. “Upon my soul!” Sir Lawrence spluttered. Pat gasped, Dicky clutched his chest and Eliza swooned yet again.

  Then, as suddenly as it had arrived, the phantom cow faded away to nothing.

  Pat ran over to join the professor, who was already helping Bo up from the wreckage of the lav.

  She groaned weakly. “Did I get it?”

  “If you mean a sore head, then the answer’s yes.” McMoo sighed. “If you mean the Black Cow of Doom, then I’m afraid not. Good try, though!”

  “Was it really a spirit, Professor?” Pat wondered, his eyes wide.

  McMoo kicked about in the scattered planks. “Well, it’s certainly spirited away poor old Seymour!”

  “Mr Bushes has been moo-dered!” wailed Eliza Barmer from the mossy courtyard floor.

  With some effort, McMoo helped her up. “When Seymour saw whatever he saw in the toilet, he shouted for you, Mrs Barmer. Any idea why?”

  Eliza sobbed into a hanky. “None, sir! None!”

  “Probably hoped she might scare the ghost away!” Bo muttered.

  Then Pat noticed something glinting on the ground beside the wreck of the toilet. “Hey!” He picked up a large silver and ivory brooch. “What’s this?”

  “Ooh! That’s mine!” Eliza dried her eyes and took the brooch from him. “How peculiar. I thought I had left it in my quarters.”

  “Perhaps Seymour spotted it and called to let you know,” said Sir Lawrence. “But then that foul farmyard fiend appeared and . . .”

  “We’ll see Seymour no more!” Dicky wiped a tear from his eye. “And I fear that I shall be the cow’s next target.”

  “Not so, sir!” came a shrill, regal voice from behind them.

  Everyone whirled round, and gasped.

  McMoo couldn’t believe his eyes! A short, dumpy woman had spoken. She looked sullen and grave, with bulging eyes. Her long, dark hair was pinned back behind her ears with not a strand out of place; her blue satin dress hung down to her feet just as faultlessly. There was a haughty look about her that spoke of someone used to getting their own way. Beside her stood a slender man with a small, neat moustache. He looked from person to person, nodding his head politely.

  Sir Lawrence gasped and fell quickly to one knee, as did the other humans – apart from Eliza who simply fell to the floor. “Your Majesty!” Sir Lawrence spluttered.

  “And His Royal Highness, the Prince Consort!” cried McMoo in delight. He quickly put an arm around Pat and Bo and shoved them to their knees. “Queen Victoria herself turning up with her hubby,” he whispered, “and we’re here to see it. I love this job!”

  “Er, forgive me, ma’am,” stammered Sir Lawrence. “And you, dear Albert, my old friend. I’m sorry for not greeting you when first you arrived here, but I was not expecting a royal visit.”

  “Naturally, you weren’t,” said Queen Victoria, a girlish sparkle in her eyes. “Because we are here in secret! We came in an unmarked carriage.”

  McMoo was looking between Sir Lawrence and Albert. “Are you two mates, then? I didn’t know you were a botanist, your prince-ness.”

  “It’s one of my hobbies,” Albert explained in his German accent. “And Sir Lawrence and his friends have helped me a great deal with preparations for the Great Exhibition by creating the many plant displays.” He shook his head. “I was so shocked when Sir Lawrence told me about the Black Cow’s moo-derous antics . . .”

  “And now,” said Victoria, “it seems that the vile, moo-dering phantom wants to get my dear husband! Infernal cheek. Show them, Albert.”

  Albert removed a by now familiar card from his jacket pocket. “This was delivered to my table at my private club.” Sir Lawrence and Dicky Hart crowded round to read, and McMoo, Pat and Bo looked over their shoulders.

  BEWARE, ALBERT! screamed the printed words. I, THE DREADED BLACK COW OF DOOM, WILL MOO-DER YOU. DON’T EVEN THINK OF TRYING TO FIND A PROTECTIVE CHARM IN AN OLD BOOK OF MAGIC FROM YOUR LOCAL ANTIQUE BOOK STORE – IT WILL AVAIL YOU NAUGHT!

  “You see now why we came here in secret,” said Albert. “If the newspaper men knew I had been threatened by a ghostly cow, and that I took it seriously—”

  “The royal family would look ridiculous,” huffed Queen Victoria. “It wouldn’t do for all those foreigners visiting the exhibition to think we’re scaredy-cats!”

  “The Black Cow was in a chatty mood when it wrote this card,” Pat observed. “Seymour’s note was short and not very sweet.”

  “The cow was foolish to even mention that charm,” said Queen Victoria. “I sent an advisor straight out to the nearest antique bookshop in Piccadilly. And sure enough, he found a most telling piece of parchment with ease!” She pulled out a crumpled roll of paper from the sleeve of her dress, and read aloud: “To ward off the fearsome spirit of the Black Cow of Doom, you must go to a house with three marble fountains and a garden where grows the pomp lily.”

  Sir Lawrence looked amazed. “But . . . my own house has three fountains! And the pomp lily grows in my garden in abundance!”

  “I know, my friend, from past visits.” Albert smiled. “And the Black Cow must have known also, which is why it tried to steer me away from learning of such a charm.”

  “But instead, it accidentally gave you the idea,” McMoo noted thoughtfully. “What a careless ghost.”

  “Quite!” Victoria agreed, turning to Sir Lawrence. “But since we wish to take no chances with the Great Exhibi
tion’s grand opening ceremony in just forty-eight hours, I wondered if Albert and I could secretly stay with you until that time?”

  “Majesty, of course! It would be an honour!” Sir Lawrence bowed low enough to kiss the ground, as Albert smiled his thanks. “And Dicky, you must come too,” he told his friend. “We know now that the Black Cow can strike here in my club – it may try to get you too while we’re away.”

  “A right royal stay in the country?” Dicky went red with delight. “Goodness me, the old ticker won’t stand it!”

  “Er, might I see that parchment, Your Majesty?” McMoo gave her a winning smile. “I’m Professor Angus McMoo, by the hay. Way, I mean. Expert on everything cow-ish.”

  Victoria passed him the paper with a girlish smile. “I hope you will be joining us also, Professor? I do so admire men of learning.”

  “Ha!” Bo whispered. “Queen Victoria fancies you!”

  “Well, I certainly fancy a trip to Sir Lawrence’s.” McMoo held the parchment to his lips, took a sneaky lick and nodded. “As I thought, this is a fake. It’s just modern paper stained with tea to make it look yellowy and old.” He tasted the parchment again. “And not just any old tea. Unless my taste buds are very much moo-staken, it’s a blend from the twenty-sixth century!”

  “Then . . . this was left in the queen’s local antique book shop on purpose for her to find.” Pat gasped. “Those Fed-up Bulls must want Albert and Dicky to go to Sir Lawrence’s house.”

  Bo scratched her head. “But why? If Albert isn’t even a real botanist . . .” She gasped suddenly. “Hey! Yak told us that Queen Vicki might be part of the F.B.I. plan – do you think those fed-up bulls are trying to get at her?”

  “Quite possibly,” McMoo agreed.

  Bo frowned. “Then we must warn her and Albert!”

  “Warn them about time-travelling bulls from the future? They’d never believe us.” The professor shook his head. “No, our best bet is to stay close, learn what the F.B.I. are up to and do our best to protect everyone.”