Casper Candlewacks in the Claws of Crime!

by Ivan Brett

  “You’re supposed to wear gloves.” Lavender lifted the pot back to its place on the floor and brushed off her hands. “We’ll soon have them house-trained.”

  Lamp awoke and yawned, a trail of dribble stringing lazily over his chin.

  “Oh.” He looked around, wide-eyed, and blinked. “I thought this was a dream.” Daisy giggled, which made him giggle too.

  Lavender clasped her hands together. “Well then, shall we dance away all our troubles at the Summer Ball tonight?”

  Casper shook his head. “I hadn’t even thought of going.”

  “I’m going with Daisy,” announced Lamp.

  “Are you?” asked Casper.

  “Are you?” asked Daisy.

  “Yes, of course. I’ve made a new costume.”

  “All right,” replied Daisy, grinning, “but only if Casper goes.” She stole a quick glance in his direction.

  Casper grimaced. “Not while Cuddles is…”

  “Come on, it’ll be fun.”

  “No, I’m not going. I can’t dance.”

  “I can dance,” said Lamp, eagerly turning to Daisy. (Lamp really couldn’t dance. After his disastrous attempt at a can-can in last year’s school disco they had to build a new assembly hall.)

  A meow from within the foliage distracted Casper from his worries.

  “Weird,” he muttered. “What flower makes that noise?”

  Daisy shrugged. “Catkins?”

  Meow. There it was again, followed by an infernal crash as a large clay pot toppled to the floor and shattered. Then out from behind a vine blundered a large ginger-and-black tomcat, teetering from side to side and howling miserably.

  “Here, kitty,” Lamp held out a hand, but when the cat stepped forward for a rub he missed it by miles and keeled over sideways. “What’s he doing?”

  Lavender’s brow furrowed. “We get a lot of strays in here. I think they like the plants.”

  The cat rolled around on the floor before finally managing to wobble to its feet. Casper caught a look at its collar and gasped. “That’s not a stray. It’s Tiddles – Mrs Trimble’s lost cat.”

  Daisy clapped her hands with delight. “We’ve found him! She’ll be so happy.” She whistled at Tiddles and he stumbled towards her, but he veered off course and bonked headfirst into a table leg. Flopping to a sitting position, he looked glumly at Casper and howled.

  “Something’s wrong with him.” Casper scratched Tiddles behind the ear with his finger.

  “Maybe he’s broken,” said Lamp, rooting around in his pocket for a screwdriver. “I’ll have a look.”

  “No, Lamp. You’ll hurt him.”

  “He might just need an oil change.”

  “Cats don’t use any oil.”

  “Well, that’s probably the problem, isn’t it.”

  “Now now, Lamp,” cooed Lavender. “That’s not how we treat cats. Come on, Tiddles, let’s get you home.” She reached down to whisk him away from Lamp’s screwdriver, but he hissed like a gas leak, puffed up his tail and bolted out of the room, only missing a faceful of doorframe by the width of a gremlin’s eyebrow (eight millimetres, if you’re acting it out at home). He scrabbled down the hallway, thudding into something thuddy, clanging into something clangy, then bursting through the shop’s front door and out into the deserted square.

  “Odd.” Casper didn’t really understand animals – the closest thing he’d ever had to a pet was Cuddles – but he couldn’t help thinking there was something seriously wrong with Tiddles. “Should we go after him?”

  “No.” Lavender’s soft voice carried a waver of worry. “He’ll find his way home. Cats are very good with directions.”

  “He wasn’t.” Tiddles’ appearance had broken the spell for Casper, and as the sun went behind a cloud he found himself restless, his thoughts drawn once more to Cuddles and Amanda. “I’d better get home.” Casper pushed back his chair and brushed the crumbs from his lap. Lamp crammed in a last mouthful of cake and joined him, still grinning at Daisy through jammy teeth, and they made their way to the front of the shop, thanking the Blossoms for the tea and cake and anything else that came to mind.

  The empty square was strewn with crushed flowers, smashed magnifying glasses and crumpled notebooks scrawled with pea-brained theories such as ‘Sneaky-looking pigeon on roof – enquire further!’ and ‘Murder weapon was a flannel!’ Lamp accompanied the walk home with a jolly song about Daisy, but it petered out in the second verse when he ran out of words that he knew. He trotted along in silence for a while, but then he noticed Casper’s frown. “Why’s your face all crumpled?”

  “Nothing. Just the way Tiddles looked at me. I feel like I’m missing something.” But the something didn’t come. Casper’s head was a noisy jumble sale of cluttered worries, cats, boiled eggs and big bejewelled swords. He didn’t notice Lamp wave goodbye at the Feete Street postbox, or the pile of snoozing detectives on the corner of Cracklin’ Crescent. Casper’s mind was elsewhere, sifting through the chaos in his brain and longing for a nap.

  Amanda Candlewacks was banging around in the attic when Casper arrived home. Judging by the absence of floorboards, she was still hard at her game of hide-and-seek.

  Julius looked too exhausted to embark on any new hair-brained projects. Instead he sat slouched in the living room yelling at some lizards in a nature documentary.

  Traipsing into the kitchen, Casper brewed himself a cup of tea (white, four sugars) and one for his mum (black, eight sugars), and crossed his fingers (white, no sugars). Then he made his way upstairs.

  “Brought you some tea, Mum,” he said, climbing the final few steps to the attic.

  “Did you check in the mug for Cuddles?” Amanda sat amongst a grubby pile of floorboards with a hammer in one hand and the poster of Tiddles in the other, head smothered with dust.

  “I’ve got something to tell you.”

  “You know where she is?” Amanda sat bolt upright, eyes wide.

  “Sort of.”

  “Ooh! Tell me, tell me!” In the process of scrabbling forward, Amanda knocked over both cups of tea, which seeped through the floorboards and gave a family of rats a hot shower.

  “Well,” Casper gulped. Telling Lavender had been easy, so why not Mum? She knelt in front of him, her eyes keen, her mouth slightly open. With fingers firmly crossed, Casper began.

  “I wanted to catch Le Chat for the reward money for Dad’s restaurant so Lamp and I went to the crime scene last night and I took Cuddles because I thought she could sniff for clues, and we saw Le Chat, but Cuddles chased after her and they both disappeared before we got there and then there was a note from Le Chat saying she’d give Cuddles back if we let her leave with the sword, but the villagers don’t even want Cuddles, so we spent the day looking for her instead.” He collapsed on to the banister and gasped in most of the air in the attic. “But I’ll find her,” he blurted, “I promise.” He tried to swallow, but his mouth was bone dry.

  There was a long pause, during which a tea-stained rat scuttled out from the floorboards looking for a biscuit to dunk.

  Eventually Amanda muttered, “So she’s not playing hide-and-seek?”

  “No.”

  “Not even one round?”

  “Not even one round.”

  “But I didn’t look inside the pillows.”

  “She’s not inside the pillows, Mum.” Casper reached a hand towards her, but she snapped it away. “I’ve been looking for her all day.”

  “Me too.” She clambered to her feet and shuffled numbly past Casper down the stairs. “And it was fun till you turned up.”

  “I’ll find her, Mum. I will,” he yelled, scrambling after her.

  Amanda looked at Casper, blank-faced and expressionless. “How can you find her? You told me yourself – she’s not even playing hide-and-seek.” She turned away, sniffed and shuffled down the second flight of stairs, still frantically pursued by Casper.

  “It doesn’t matter about the game, I’ll look for her anyway.
”

  “No, you won’t. You’re grounded. You’re not leaving this house until you’ve put all these floorboards back down and fixed the kitchen window.” Arriving in the dingy living room, Amanda plonked herself on the sofa next to Julius and stared at the TV screen.

  “Mum,” Casper shouted. “Mum!”

  No answer. A cheer rose from the telly as a group of tap-dancing nuns made it through to the semi-finals of Convent Idol.

  “Mum, listen to me.”

  The nuns began a victory performance. Clickity clickity clack clack clack.

  “Dad.”

  Clickity clickity clack. “Alleluia!”

  “I’ll find Cuddles. I promise.”

  Clomp clomp clomp clack. “Amen!”

  “Listen to me!”

  A round of applause, then a bear advertising socks.

  Bursting with frustration, Casper stomped up the stairs to his room and threw himself face down on to the bed. Before he could help it, salty tears pushed themselves through and dribbled down his face, making little damp patches on the pillow. “I will, I will,” he cried. “I will find you, Cuddles.” Then the tears flooded through and he sobbed like he was five again, squeezing the pillow and gritting his teeth. He sobbed and sobbed until, eventually, he could sob no more.

  By now the room was dark and stuffy and it smelt of curried feet. Casper lay motionless on his bed, eyes unblinking. His mind flitted from place to place; first to Cuddles, then Lamp and Daisy, and then to the Summer Ball, which made him smile feebly. At least I don’t have to go and dance, he thought. The other two would have such fun together clowning around on the dance floor. Everyone would be there, twirling and prancing and spilling their wine. Well, not everyone. Not Cuddles.

  “Hang on,” Casper leapt out of bed and landed on a plastic truck. “OUCH.” He grabbed his foot, hopping around the room in a mixture of agony and enlightenment. “Not Cuddles!” Of course Cuddles wouldn’t be there – she’d been kidnapped. But leave her alone for thirty seconds, even in a cage made of bite-proof galvanised super-steel surrounded by a pack of grouchy tigers with poisoned claws, and Cuddles would gnaw her way out with time left for a glass of milk and a quick nap. In other words, if Le Chat didn’t want Cuddles to bite her house down, she’d have to be guarded full-time. “And that leaves no time to go to the ball. So whoever doesn’t come… is Le Chat!” Casper clapped his hands and leapt from the other end of the room to his bed. “I can find out who it is! I have to go to the ball.”

  “You shall go to the ball,” sang the Fairy Godmother, appearing from nowhere with a sparkle. Oh… hang on; wrong story.

  Then it struck him like a muddy spade to the face. “Oh no. Mum, and the floorboards. I can’t leave the house.” As instantly as it had arrived, the excitement poured out of Casper and left him furry-tongued and punctured. There was no way out: to get to the front or the back door meant walking right past the living room. Amanda would see him, and that would spell the end of it. Rubbing his temples pensively, Casper took a slow breath. “OK, Casper, think.” He paced round the edge of his room, looking for an answer. What would a superhero do? “Fly, I suppose.” He laughed emptily and flung open the window. A long way down. “I’d be too scared to fly, anyway.”

  Then, out of the corner of his eye he spotted the sturdy metal drainpipe stretching from the roof, past his window, right down to a prickly hawthorn bush in the garden.

  Casper chuckled. “I couldn’t.”

  The pipe glinted temptingly.

  “Could I?”

  It was perfectly strong, securely attached to the wall.

  “How hard could it be?” Marvelling at his own idiocy, he scrambled for the tin can and rasped, “Lamp.”

  There was some clucking, a giggle and then, “Hullo, Casper.”

  “We can solve this tonight just by going to the ball. See you outside your garage in five minutes.”

  “Just wait till you see my costume.” With an eager squeak Lamp shuffled away and the tin can fell silent.

  He’d never done this before – daring escapes only happened in books. But there was the drainpipe, easily within stretching distance. He clambered on to the sill and grasped the pipe with his right hand, then eased himself fully out, clinging on with gritty determination and gripping the pipe with his legs like a circus monkey. This was Casper’s third window escape in 24 hours, but no matter now many times he did it he’d always prefer the less dramatic door option. Centimetre by centimetre he shinned down the pipe, praying that his clammy hands didn’t squeak on the metal. He descended gingerly, palms stinging. Then his foot accidentally kicked the back living-room window, only metres away from his parents. Casper grimaced. If they turned round now he’d be caught, no question, but they didn’t stir, mesmerised as they were by America’s Top Possum. How much further? He dared to peek at the remaining drop. Halfway, thank goodness. But in looking down, his left hand slipped from the pipe, his right couldn’t take the weight and Casper found himself swiping at cold air as he flipped backwards from the pipe and crashed heavily into the spiky embrace of a hawthorn bush. He cried out through gritted teeth as prickles impaled him like a pincushion, but he wrestled free and ducked below the window before his parents could tear their eyes from the screen. Casper bit his knuckles and counted to five. Nobody stirred. Holding his breath, he crawled on all fours to the side gate, unlatched it and scampered through to freedom.

  Exhilarated yet perforated, Casper hobbled the distance to Lamp’s, wincing at every step. Little scarlet pinpricks punctuated his faded T-shirt like full stops of pain (which were great for livening up old clothes, but terrible at ending sentences). The deed was done – he’d defied his mother’s orders, so failure to find Cuddles tonight would be disastrous. But the task was simple – spot who wasn’t at the ball, sneak out and head for their house, then catch the culprit and retrieve Cuddles along with the sword. Simple, foolproof and— “Lamp, what on earth are you wearing?”

  Lamp stood proudly in front of his garage, hands on hips, covered from head to toe in a thick mat of white feathers. He ran on the spot, flapping his wings and yelling, “My costume, Casper. Guess what it’s made of?”

  Mavis and Bessie cowered naked and shivering behind Lamp, watching their feathered friend with envy.

  Lamp patted the hens’ heads. “The ladies lent me their feathers. I’ll give them back tomorrow.”

  “It’s not fancy dress,” Casper grimaced.

  “Course it is.” Lamp frowned at Casper’s outfit. “Who are you going as?”

  “Nobody. Just me.”

  “Doesn’t look anything like you. What’s all the blood for?”

  Casper brushed down his crimson-specked T-shirt.

  “I’ve got some spare feathers if you want,” Lamp continued.

  “No, thanks.”

  Mavis clucked rudely.

  “Anyway, we’ve got a cat burglar to catch.”

  Lamp’s face dropped. “What about the ball?”

  “We’re still going, but we might need to slip out.”

  “As long as I get to dance with Daisy,” Lamp grinned. “Do you think she’ll like my costume?”

  Mayor Rattsbulge squished his greasy nose against the window, his bloated stomach rumbling at the sight of the buffet table piled high with the crispiest sausage rolls since records began. “You’re mine, you golden beauties,” he rumbled, licking the spittle from his drooping lips.

  Half an hour ago tiny Mitch McMassive had clambered on to the back of Bean, the pub dog, and galloped about the village, rounding up the detectives and herding them into the village hall. He ankle-cuffed them in position and now, squawking with resentment, they poured drinks, blew up balloons or manned the cloakroom. Terry had got hold of the microphone and was acting as master of ceremonies, to the dismay of anybody with ears.

  Behind the mayor in the queue outside muddled the rest of the early arrivals, dressed in silky frocks and pretty bonnets, gaggling like geese.

  “Don’
t you look just ravishing, love,” warbled Mrs Trimble to Clemmie Answorth, who’d put her dress on the wrong way up.

  “Oh, nothing compared to you,” replied Clemmie, gesturing at Mrs Trimble’s squirming black scarf. “But why’s it moving?”

  “It’s all made of Tiddleses.” The scarf unwound itself from Mrs Trimble’s neck and meowed. “Very warm.”

  Mrs Trimble’s cat-scarf jabbed a claw at Clemmie, who screamed and fell backwards over Mitch McMassive into a flowerbed.

  The boys joined the back of the queue behind Sandy Landscape, who had brushed his teeth and polished his wellies for the occasion. Casper impatiently tapped his feet, counting heads to see who was missing.

  “See, it is fancy dress.” Lamp pointed his wing at Sandy. “He’s come as a gardener.”

  “He is a gardener,” Casper whispered.

  “But he’s come as a mayor, and she’s come as a lady, and… Ooh! The queue’s moving.” Lamp’s excitement bubbled over and he did a little jig on the spot.

  The moment the clock struck eight, Mayor Rattsbulge threw open the doors and thundered towards the buffet table with a ravenous squeal, trampling straight over the ticket-collecting sleuth. The rest of the villagers roared in behind him, flattening the already pancake-thin ticket-collector to the thickness of tracing paper. The hall was gaily decked out with flowery bunting provided by Lavender Blossom and a large white bedsheet was taped to the rafters on which Sandy Landscape had daubed Hapey Sumer, in messy red letters. He kept nudging people and pointing up at it, nodding sagely and saying, “It were I what made that, it were.”

  Casper counted the villagers through the door on his fingers from a seat in the corner. Next to him Lamp picked at his feathers impatiently.

  Over in another corner, that ruddy-faced Frenchman sat sullenly sipping a large glass of red wine, watching the boys through the slits of his eyes.