by Joan Aiken
"Ma, I'm afraid your cards are all over the floor."
"Oh! That wretched bird! I've never got the Chinese Dragon patience out yet, and I really was beginning to think that I might manage it this time.... It's supposed to be wonderful good luck if you get it to come out...."
"Well, anyway, I've caught the robin. Copped it in the cosy.” Harriet returned to the kitchen with her prize, which she carried tenderly and delicately in both hands. The tea-cosy was a large and handsome one. It had been made as a joint enterprise by Mr. Armitage and his daughter from two semicircular bits of blanket left over from a dressing-gown Mrs. Armitage had made for Mark's birthday. The two pieces of blanket had been blanket-stitched together along the curving edge. Mr. Armitage had embroidered three red-and-green tulips in wool on one side, and Harriet had done a rather good scarlet dragon on hers.
(Harriet had been very much into dragons last year, and had done them everywhere, on the fridge door, table napkins, and towels. Now she was into Himalayan bears.)
She walked across the kitchen, stepped outside the back door, opened the edges of the tea-cosy, and invited the robin to leave.
It was not cooperative.
"It likes being in the cosy. Nice and warm. Reminds it of life in the nest. Or in the egg."
"Well, shake it out! Get into its head that it is not welcome inside the house! The garden is the place for robins. Cards all over the sitting-room floor.... I was really certain that I was going to get the Dragon patience out this time—"
"Harriet! Hurry up and eject that bird!” called her father. “The tea is growing cold in the pot."
By vigorously shaking the cosy, Harriet finally managed to persuade the robin to fly off into the garden.
"Shut the door, please, to show the bird it's not welcome."
Harriet did so. The door bell instantly rang.
"That can't be the robin, surely?” Harriet opened the door again. “But I didn't notice anybody outside—"
A tall, handsomely dressed, gray-haired lady swept past Harriet and into the Armitage kitchen.
"Good day to you, dear pipple!” she fluted. “I have heard such a lot about you! I am so delighted to meet you at last! I am Lady Havergal-Nightwood, my husband is Sir James—you are probably aweer that we have just moved into Nightwood Park Hall and of course I lost no time in seeking you out, the virry first thing I must do, I said to dulling Jimbo, my husband, the virry first thing must be to look up those clivver Armitages, I have heard so mich about you from all sides—is that tea you have in the pot? How delightful! Yes, jist a cip, if you will, and limon, not milk—yis, I said to Jimbo, I must get the Armitage family on our list without delay—they must be the virry first!"
"Find a lemon in the fridge, can you?” Mrs. Armitage muttered to Harriet. “And slice it."
"Nightwood Park Hall,” remarked Mr. Armitage politely. “You'll find it a trifle damp, won't you? Been standing empty for fifteen years, isn't that right? Waiting for some inheritance problem between two brothers to get itself solved?"
"Yis, yis, and it has bin solved at last!” cried Lady Havergal-Nightwood radiantly. “In favour of my dear husband, Jimbo—his brother is thought to be dead—he went to Midigascar and has not returned for sivinteen years. So you may—if you wish—address me as Queen of the Wood! (The title, of course, goes with the house and has done so since the days of the Conqueror.)"
"Really, Your Majesty, how very interesting."
"Oh, but do call me Piggy!"
"Er—Piggy?"
"Short for Miguerite, dears—my dulling mother was another Mig—all the gairls in the family—back to ten-sixty-six—have been Daisies—"
"Back to the Conqueror, just fancy that,” said Mrs. Armitage, handing the visitor a cup of tea with a large chunk of lemon floating in it.
"Thanks, dulling—oh, in fict, way, way before the Conqueror! But now, whit I winted to ask you, dulling Mrs. Armitage—you are the cliver lady who knows just iverything about Silitaire—"
"Silitaire?"
"Patience, dulling, patience—card games for one person, that you play by yoursilf—alas, my dulling Jimbo has no head for card games—"
"Oh, patience, yes—I mostly do Klondike or Napoleon or Streets-and-Alleys or Beleaguered Castle—for relaxation, you know, at times when the children have been extra active—But you wish to learn?"
Mrs. Armitage looked up in slight puzzlement at the visitor, who was walking excitedly about the room.
"Chinese Dragon is the win I'm after—you'll hardly believe this, dulling, but a clairvoyant read my hand wince and told me that if I can build an array of Chinese Dragon—is that what they call it?—and get it to come out—then, dullings, she said I shall be virry, virry lucky—have my heart's desire!"
"Oh—isn't that interesting!” said Mrs. Armitage politely. “I must admit, I have never yet managed to make the Chinese Dragon come out—it needs three packs, you know, and you must have a large table—and it takes hours and hours—"
"Niver mind that! I'm sure that whin you have taught me—you with your cliver, cliver know-how—I shall master it in no time!” cried Lady Havergal-Nightwood eagerly.
"Can you show me now?"
"I'm afraid not just now—I'm due for a meeting of the Village Institute,” said Mrs. Armitage hastily. “Another time—very soon—” And she made her escape.
So did the Queen of the Wood, leaving Harriet and her father to wash up the tea things.
"Oh bother!” growled Harriet. “I should have asked the lady if she kept dogs and needed any dog-walking done."
"Are you still saving to buy a Himalayan bear?"
"Only twenty pounds to go now. As long as they don't put the price up."
"So how many dogs are you walking at present?"
"Seven. The two Labradors, Mrs. Smith's Jack Russell, Betty Grove's spaniel, a Russian greyhound that belongs to P.C. Walker, and Phil Turner's two peaks. If Lady Whatsit-Nightwood has a dog, I could pick it up as I cross the corner of Nightwood Park, that's the way I mostly walk the dogs, there's a public right-of-way where I can let them off their leads—that would bring my takings up to 8 pounds A WALK?"
The back door shot open and Lady Havergal-Nightwood popped her head back round it.
"Dulling child, did I hear you say that you exercise dogs?—The virry thing! Can you add my sweet Bobbie-Dob to your string? How virry, virry kind! Tomorrow, then—three o'clock at Nightwood Park Hall!"
"Yes—yes, of course,” said Harriet, a little taken aback. “What kind of dog is, er, Bobbie-Dob?"
"A Pit Bull-Mastiff cross, dulling."
"Oh. Er—is he good tempered?"
"He can be a little titchy, I must confiss! But I am sure you and he will git on splindidly! Your fee? Oh, bay the bay, I did not have time to inform your dulling Mum that I am able to grant wishes—as a reward—"
"Wishes?"
"Just like in the fairy books, you know. Because I was born under Libra, so I am caring and giving."
"But in that case,” Harriet could not help asking, “if you can grant wishes, why not give one to yourself? Instead of bothering about the Chinese Dragon patience to grant your heart's desire—whatever that is?"
"Ah, dulling, I can only grant wishes to other pipple. Not to my own self, do you see?"
"Yes I see,” said Harriet thoughtfully. “I expect Ma would wish to be able to reverse the car into a parking space—she was saying the other day that the one thing she really wanted—"
"Will, will, anything, anything she fancies! And you, too, dulling. Tomorrow, when you come to the Hall, we can fix a time for her to show me the Dragon—can we not?"
Beaming, Lady Havergal-Nightwood withdrew her head round the edge of the door. As she did so the excitable robin hurtled through the narrow gap, shot across the kitchen, and steered a headlong course for the sitting-room, where it knocked over a vase and spilled water over two packs of patience cards.
"That bird has a death-wish,” snapped Mr. Armitage, s
natching up the Queen of Spades. “I almost wish your brother were at home playing his oboe—one thing Mark's noise does seem to do is subdue wildlife—"
"Oh, thank you, Father, that's given me a good idea,” said Harriet. “I am not mad about the sound of dulling Bobbie-Dob. I'll ask Mark to come along with me to Park Hall and bring his oboe."
Nimbly she lassoed the robin in a teacloth, and tenderly escorted it to the very back end of the garden.
* * * *
Mark was not very keen on the sound of Lady Havergal-Nightwood—"I bet the wishes she grants aren't up to much; probably the sort of feeble thing you find in fortune cookies and Christmas crackers"—but he was curious to have a look at Nightwood Park Hall, which had stood empty for fifteen years.
"There might be a colony of bats. Yes, I'll bring my oboe. Bats enjoy oboe music."
This was just what Harriet had hoped. Mark had oboe lessons from Professor Johansen who as well as teaching music ran a holiday home for dogs with owners overseas, and knew exactly the kind of airs and harmonies to please the canine taste. Harriet was not too easy in her mind about Bobbie-Dob; a Pit-Bull-Mastiff cross might, she thought, be rather a tough proposition.
Nightwood Park lay about half a mile downhill from the Armitage house and was partly wooded, partly open grassy land. A graveled track ran as far as the house, and beyond that a muddy footpath and right-of-way cut through the woods to a heathery common.
Since nobody had occupied the house for fifteen years it was in a very run-down condition, with ivy creeping up the walls, tiles missing from the roof, and several broken windows. The woods, too, were a tangle of brambles and undergrowth, a paradise for birds, badgers, and foxes. Otters had established a colony in the fast-flowing little river that crossed the path.
Harriet had expected that the Hall would be a scene of activity, with builders bustling about, but this was not the case. A builder's skip stood outside the front door, filled with rubble and odds and ends. At some distance round the circular, weed-grown gravel sweep an aged Morris car was parked. Harriet could not decide whether there was a person sitting in the car, or was it simply a blanket folded over the driver's seat? No one else was to be seen, but when Mark and Harriet and her seven satellite dogs reached the rusty wrought-iron gates that separated the sweep from the approach road, a deep, threatening bark could be heard from inside the house.
Harriet's troupe of dogs bristled, and several of them set up a hostile chorus of counter-barks.
"I'll just tie them up here,” said Harriet, looping the lead handles over the latch of the gate, leaving the dogs on the outside. “No sense walking into trouble."
She and Mark approached the house slowly and with caution, not wishing to run foul of Bobbie-Dob. Nightwood Park Hall was large and gray, with six pillars set across its front facade and twelve large windows on each storey. There were three stories.
"Rather a big house for Lady Havergal-N and her Jimbo,” said Harriet. “Unless they have dozens of children."
The barking inside grew more and more menacing.
"How about playing a tune?” suggested Harriet. She wished that Lady Havergal-Nightwood would appear. There was a brass bell handle at the side of the two large double doors (from which the paint was peeling; a mess of crumbled paint lay on the cobbles inset on the steps that led up to the door).
Mark took his oboe from its pack and played “Oh Where Is My Little Dog Gone?"
There was a startled silence from inside the house.
Harriet gave another couple of vigorous tugs to the bell handle.
After two or three more minutes one of the double doors opened. Lady Havergal-Nightwood stood there. On a short, tight leash she held one of the most disagreeable-looking dogs that Harriet thought she had ever seen. It was the size of a large mastiff, brindled, with very large feet and a low-slung tail, and it had the squashed face of a pit bulldog. The face wore a thoroughly mean and hostile expression and the dog tugged at its leash as if it yearned to leap out and make mincemeat of these troublesome callers.
Mark played his little tune again.
Bobbie-Dob suddenly sat down as if he had booked a seat for a musical recital, showed his ticket at the door, found his place, and now wanted nothing more than to sit, listen, and enjoy himself.
"Gid hivens, dulling,” said Lady Havergal-Nightwood, “you mist be a bit of a genius if you can charm my old Bobbie so cliverly! Will it last?"
"Oh, I shouldn't think so, not for more than five minutes. I'll have to keep playing while my sister walks the dogs."
"Jist like the Pied Piper!” said Lady Havergal-Nightwood gaily. “Here's the leash, dulling. And I'd keep him on it. There are roe deer in the woods, I believe, and—and—and he'd be after them in no time if you let him go."
"This is going to be a well-earned wish,” thought Harriet, as, controlling Bobbie-Dob with all the strength of her right hand, she returned to the gate and collected her seven other customers. Mark meanwhile kept up a series of mellifluous tunes on the oboe, which attracted the interest of several birds, wood-doves, peckers, and warblers as they walked along the muddy cart-track between the trees.
Harriet let the other clients off their leads as soon as they were well into the wood; the dogs were used to the path and trotted along rather soberly—it was plain that they were justifiably nervous of Bobbie-Dob and not at all anxious to provoke him in any way. He wandered along like a dog in a trance, only flicking up his ears, jerking up his head, and letting out a displeased growl if the music stopped for more than a moment.
His growl was particularly impatient when Mark broke off playing to say, “Can you hear a car coming along this track?"
"Yes I can,” said Harriet. “Whoever is driving along here surely must be crazy."
"Well, I suppose it's the only way to get to the house if they are coming from the east side of the park. Otherwise they'd have to go all the way round, which would be about ten miles. They do have a four-wheel drive,” he added, as the car came into view. It was a white wagon of massive stocky build.
"Good heavens, it's Chinese!” exclaimed Harriet. “I never saw a Chinese registration plate before. Do you think they are friends of the Havergal-Nightwoods paying a visit?"
"No, they are police,” said Mark. “Chinese police."
"What makes you think that?"
"Their faces. And their uniforms. And the sign on the door."
The sign on the car may or may not have said POLICE in Chinese. The two men, with serious faces and dark blue uniforms, certainly looked like police.
The car stopped. The door nearest Mark and Harriet opened, and the blue-uniformed driver asked them, very politely,
"Is this the way to Nightwood Park Hall?” His careful, correct English was certainly that of a foreigner.
Mark stopped playing his oboe for a moment, which threw Bobbie-Dob into a frenzy. He hurled himself at the white car and Harriet just managed to jerk him back before he assaulted the driver.
"Oh my!” said the driver. “Oh my! I discover that you possess a Chinese police dog. But he does not appear to be very well trained."
"He's not trained at all,” said Harriet, hauling on the leash. Mark hurriedly began playing “Oh Where and Oh Where."
"Now, this is quite interesting,” said the driver, carefully observing the struggles and furious snarls of Bobbie-Dob. “He is not your dog?"
"NO—thank goodness!” agreed Harriet.
"He has recently come to this country from China?"
"Has he? I mean—I don't really know anything about him. He belongs to Lady Havergal-Nightwood. I'm just here to take him for a walk. But if he has just come from China—shouldn't he be in quarantine somewhere? For six months?"
The driver—his name on a bilingual badge was given as Captain Tim Thing—studied Bobbie-Dob carefully. As soon as the music had exerted its tranquilizing effect, he lifted the dog's massive front leg and displayed a tattooed number. “See? Chinese police dog registration number. He
is for sure one of ours. Purloined!"
"Gracious!” said Harriet. “Why would anybody want to?"
"Aha! But such dogs are most useful—for guarding some prisoner perhaps. Human or animal."
"Animal?” said Harriet. “You mean—like a lion? Or something fierce?"
"Just so. We are come in pursuit of this stolen dog all the way from China."
"You came after him? He's yours? But what about Lady Havergal-Nightwood? He's supposed to belong to her."
"She resides up at the Hall yonder?” He pointed. The house could just be seen past the trees.
"Yes, she's there. But do you mean to say,” said Harriet, “that she may be keeping some other creature—or person—up there in the house? Is that why she hasn't got any builders there working? She's using this dog to guard something—or somebody?"
"Perchance. It may be so. Or—maybe—her other captive is somewhere in these woods. Such a small forest as this might well be a place of security for the retention of, mayhap, a modest-sized dragon."
"A dragon?” said Mark, growing interested. He stopped playing for a moment and Bobbie-Dob let out a warning snarl.
"I pacify him,” said Captain Thing, and he took from the car glove compartment a small case which contained tiny darts. One of these he neatly jabbed into Bobbie-Dob's shoulder. The result was even more immediate than Mark's music—the great dog's eyes shut, and he sagged smoothly onto the muddy track.
"He's not dead?” said Harriet anxiously.
"No, no. Asleep merely."
"But what's this about a dragon?"
"We are missing a young one from our dragon sanctuary at Pa'ta'Chu. We know this lady and her husband were there. A fledgling dragon was stolen. We have followed them across Asia and Europe; we greatly hope they have our dragon-cub. Such are not easy to rear. I have with me Professor Tom Wrong—a great expert in the care of dragon broods and other offspring of winged reptiles."
"Is so!” agreed Professor Wrong, vigorously nodding.
"(His English is not so good as mine.) But now,” Captain Thing pursued, “it is most fortuitous, most opportune, that you have these other dogs with you. I ask your cooperation that we make use of them for half an hour to search this covert for our abducted tadpole-dragon. The weather in your land is not comforting. In this cold damp climate he may likely have taken a chill. We are concerned for him."