Mouse Mission

by Prudence Breitrose

  “Where’s the other guy? The muscle mouse?”

  “He went inside, to scout around,” said Trey. “That’s one brave dude.”

  The muscle mouse was soon back, and in the last of the evening light he told them in MSL what he’d heard. Mr. Peabody had been talking to the Loggocorp guy on a phone. It sounded as if he’d be here very soon.

  That fact gave Megan the dose of bravery she needed for the next steps. Like creeping up to the front door to test the handle and finding it wasn’t locked. Looking up toward the thatched roof while she whistled “My Country, ’Tis of Thee.” Watching the roof come alive in the dusk as hundreds of mice scrambled down under the eaves and into the house at the sound of their national anthem, the sound of “God Save the Queen.”

  Now began a full-throated squawking and EEEEKing from inside as mice jumped on both full-size humans. They didn’t bite (mice really don’t like the taste of human) but they didn’t have to as they tweaked ears and noses and pulled hair and ran up pant legs while an occasional claw prickled a scalp or a neck or a knee.

  In the chaos Megan rushed into the cottage, grabbed Chaz by the hand and raced him back to Prince. She heaved him up onto the saddle, then climbed up behind him, holding him tight with one arm while she gave the softest touch to the accelerator, the barest pressure of heels to horse, and aimed Prince for the trail back through the woods.

  They were just in time, ducking into the trees as a car came roaring along the road, its tires squealing as it turned into the lane.

  Normally Prince, with his built-in GPS, would have headed straight back to the stable, but Trey realized that would be a bad idea.

  “The car,” he said. “It must have seen us vanishing into the woods. And of course those Peabodys saw you. They might drive back to the house and wait for you by the stables, so just in case…”

  Yes, just in case, it made excellent sense to avoid the stables. This time, when they came to the split in the path, she persuaded Prince to take the fork that led to the steep bluff, and the bridge over the little river, and a more secret way back to Buckford Hall.

  Meanwhile Chaz kept up a rain of questions. Where did all those mice come from? Wasn’t he going to see a doctor? Where were they going?

  You’ll get the answers, she told him. We don’t know everything. Just that we’re going back to your daddy now. Hush.

  When they reached the cliff where Prince had finally stopped his runaway gallop yesterday, Megan slid off, leaving Chaz on top.

  “We’re playing a game,” she said. “We’re going to surprise your daddy and all the others. But you have to keep very quiet or you’ll spoil the surprise.”

  “Okay,” he whispered.

  She led the pony down the steep path that led to the bridge over the little river, then across the lawns toward Buckford Hall, which looked weird for some reason, looming up in the dark. For a moment she couldn’t think what was wrong with the house, then realized that there were no lights. No lights at all, except perhaps a faint glow coming from the second floor of the South Tower. Firelight, perhaps? A candle or two?

  Now what? Should she stand below that window and shout? Even though it might make every quilter in the house look outside and see them? Or should she throw gravel at the window? Great idea, except that there was no gravel to be found on this smooth expanse of lawn.

  Megan felt mouse feet moving from one shoulder to the other, as if two mice were conferring, even though it was much too dark for MSL.

  “This dude knows his way around,” whispered Trey. “He can take us to a side door.”

  “Wait a minute! How can you…?” began Megan before she stopped herself, because she was, after all, in the presence of a Snuggle.

  “How can I what?” Chaz asked.

  “I was just talking to myself,” she said, and this time Trey came very close to her ear to whisper.

  “How can we speak MSL in the dark?” he whispered. “We can’t. We use DSL—Dark Sign Language. Mouse holes aren’t exactly well lit so it’s something we learn for emergencies. Prods and jabs and taps—stuff like that. Anyway, once we’re inside the house, this guy can help us find a flashlight. And he knows where the keys are kept, so we can unlock the South Tower.”

  As Megan led Prince across the lawns, she could just make out the dim shape of the gazebo, so she tied the pony to one of its columns and helped Chaz slide down to join her. Then Trey translated the jabs and prods and taps of the muscle mouse’s DSL, giving Megan directions to a walled garden at the base of the North Tower. It was the duke’s private garden, Trey whispered. And leading from it into the house was a small door that was hardly ever locked.

  And yes, when Megan navigated to that door, the handle turned and the door opened. But into what? Inside it was pitch dark. She stood still and waited for mouse help. Then as her eyes adjusted she became aware of a glimmer of light, a faint glow that was just enough to reveal that they were in a room where the duke probably took off his muddy boots, when he had the use of his feet.

  She was tiptoeing toward the dim light when Chaz crashed into a little cart, knocking over a potted plant. That brought the dim light closer and stronger until it revealed itself to be a flashlight focused full on her.

  For a moment, she froze. Should she run back outside to the walled garden? But Chaz was still on the floor, still untangling himself from the fronds of the plant.

  Besides, it was too late.

  ell, well, well, fancy meeting you!” came the voice behind the flashlight. “What a lark, the lights going out! I expect you’re playing murder, what? Or hide-and-seek in the dark? Oh, but look at that cut!”

  The flashlight had come close enough for Megan to see the duke’s dim face behind it in the light reflected off her. Now the beam focused on Chaz’s knee, which was a bloody mess. The Band-Aid had come off and he’d made the cut a bit worse when he crashed into the cart.

  “Plaster fell off, did it? I’ll take you to our first-aid room myself. Find another. And you never did get those chocky bickies, did you, old chap? Can’t take you upstairs for a chocky bicky now, because my confounded lift isn’t working. I was down here looking for a book in the library when the lights went off. But don’t worry, I’m sure they will be back soon. Lucky I always have this torch with me, just in case!”

  Megan felt feet climbing down her legs and strained to see where the mouse was going, but the duke’s flashlight was shining straight into her eyes. More mouse feet, this time climbing up her back, hidden from the light.

  “I sent the muscle mouse off to the South Tower,” whispered Trey from behind her neck. “Told him he should get Ken to tell your folks what happened. That Chaz is fine.”

  “Come along,” the duke was saying. “The little man can sit on my lap and hold the torch. For you, young lady, there’s a place to stand at the back. John the footman likes to ride there when no one’s looking. Peabody says it’s not dignified!”

  In the dim light Megan could just make out a bar at the back of the wheelchair where she could stand, up against the bag where Sir Quentin had been riding when Chaz cut his knee. Sure enough, she felt a slight wriggling in the bag. Sir Quentin, sticking with his duke.

  She had to hold on tight while the duke spun the chair around and zoomed out of the little room and into a maze of passages. When he reached the main corridor at the back of the huge house, he felt free to speed up even more.

  “Whee!” he said. “Remember Mr. Toad in The Wind in the Willows? When he drove so fast? Used to read that to my children. Toot toot!”

  That got a gurgling laugh out of Chaz. “But Mr. Toad kept crashing, didn’t he!” he said.

  “So he did,” said the duke. “But he never crashed in a wheelchair, what?”

  He turned sharply into the first-aid room and jammed on the brakes so hard that Chaz shot off his lap. Megan jumped off and picked Chaz up, glad to hear him laughing. Then she took the flashlight he’d been holding and parked it so it shone up at the ceiling and li
t the whole room while she found a large Band-Aid and stuck it on Chaz’s knee.

  “Now we’ll take you back to your dad,” she said. “As soon as we find the key. The door to that tower got locked, Your Grace,” she explained, adding, “Maybe by accident,” because she didn’t want to be the one to tell the duke his palace had filled up with spies.

  “What’s that?” said the duke. “Door to the South Tower locked? Don’t think that’s happened since our civil war. Fifth duke kept some prisoners there. Can’t lock those old doors by accident, young woman. Someone’s idea of a joke, what? Hop on board, Master Chaz, and I’ll take you to our key room.”

  Chaz climbed back on the duke’s knee, and Megan stood behind him again as the chair moved out, its electric motor making no sound as it slid along the corridor—past the dim glow and the chatter of voices that meant the servants were huddled in their hall by candlelight. Past the broom closet that hid Mouse Hall. Finally into a room where rows of massive keys dangled from high hooks.

  Megan dragged over a chair to help her reach the keys and aimed the flashlight at the labels above them. And she felt a deep clunk of disappointment in her stomach.

  “I can’t see it!” she said, turning—and almost collapsed when she saw a shadowy figure behind the duke, a figure that said, “I was lookin’ for you, Your Grace, because there’s things goin’ on that I don’t like at all and I don’t understand, to be honest. Like them fuses. I went to try and get the lights back on, but them fuses have all been hid.”

  “That you, John?” asked the duke. “I say, that’s a bit rich! Hiding the fuses! Locking the door! If this is all your brother’s doing, young lady, I think he’s gone a bit far. Let’s find that key, then I’ll give young Joseph a piece of my mind.”

  It took less than a minute for John to track down a six-inch key labeled “ST,” then he grabbed a handful of candles and ran ahead to unlock the South Tower. Megan and Chaz sprinted up the spiral stairs into the firelit sitting room and a scene of such joyous relief that almost every human cried a bit. After huge hugs from her mom and Jake, Megan even walked into a surprise hug from Joey, and yes, even his face was a bit damp.

  A happy reunion goes only so far, of course. When the hugs had died away, and Chaz was clinging safely to his dad, John the footman ran down with Heinrich and Martin and Pierre to bring the wheelchair upstairs, with the duke still in it.

  “Bad show, what?” he said when his wheels touched down. “Not what you expect from a stay at Buckford Hall. Not quite up to our usual standards of hospitality. When I see young Joseph…”

  Then he saw young Joseph, saw that he’d been locked in with the others, which meant that the fusing of the lights and the locking of the door were much more serious than a twelve-year-old’s idea of a joke. And someone had to tell him, more or less, what was going on. But how much?

  After a whispered consultation with Sir Brian, Susie and Jake gave His Grace an edited version of the facts, explaining that the quilters were not what they seemed but were men from Loggocorp, an organization hostile to the experts’ goals.

  “Men?” said the duke. “Men, pretending to be quilters? Never heard of such a thing! How did they manage to fool Peabody?”

  “They didn’t,” said Jake—and told the duke about Peabody’s role: that he seemed to be working for Loggocorp and had been sent here as a spy.

  “The bounder!” exclaimed the duke, his cheeks darkening to a deeper pink. “The cad! Came to me with excellent references, promising to help with the tourist business. Filling my house with spies, was he? Wanted my trees? Let’s send for the police!”

  “Yes, let’s do that,” said the ex-president, clutching Chaz.

  Megan looked at Jake, because if anybody could have thought of a way to get the police involved, without giving away the secrets of mice…

  Jake must have guessed what she was thinking, because he made the slightest shake of the head. No. Not even now. He was right, of course, because there was no way Megan could explain to the police how she had rescued Chaz without lying.

  “Let’s hold off on the cops,” Jake said. “If we call them now, this place will be crawling with reporters, which would make it hard for you guys to finish your job.”

  Yes, hard for anyone from Coconut Man’s family to secretly approach them, and hard for the whole purpose of the mission to be achieved.

  There was one voice that mattered: ex-President Pindoran, who was still holding Chaz tight. “A little delay in informing the police is acceptable,” he said, “but these people must surely be punished eventually, after what they did to my son.”

  “They will be punished,” said Jake. “I promise.”

  Of course. Even if the punishment had to be a secret one, mice would make sure that it happened, and that it was brutal.

  “But the house is still full of spies,” said Sir Brian. “Evidently our talk about sea levels didn’t drive them away as we had hoped. It could be impossible for the gentleman we are expecting to meet us here.”

  Megan felt mouse feet climbing up to the pocket where Trey was hiding. Gentle pressure, as the pocket took in an extra mouse. Then Trey’s “Gotta talk” signal, a sharp jab in her side.

  She fished him out of the pocket and held him up to an ear.

  “There’s a plan,” he said. “In the bedroom, now!”

  Megan went over to Jake and her mom to whisper, “Mouse plan.” She picked up a candle, and Jake and Susie followed her into the bedroom, where Joey joined them. A mouse was sitting on the bed, its eyes reflecting the candlelight. Ken.

  “A geezer from Mouse Hall just told me something very interesting,” he said. “Perfect way to get them quilters out of your hair, yeah? And send the whole lot into the arms of the law, away from this place.”

  He waited to make sure he had their full attention.

  “Here’s what you do,” he continued. “You get an army of five thousand blokes to surround this place. Cannons going off. Quilters being told they’re doomed unless they scarper. Skedaddle. Get out of here. Something like that work for you?”

  t didn’t take Ken long to explain how an army of five thousand men, plus cannons, could sweep the quilters out of Buckford Hall.

  It would be a virtual army, with virtual cannons.

  As Ken had learned in Mouse Hall, thousands of visitors sat on the Buckford lawns four times every summer for a sound-and-light show, in which the house told its own story. A disembodied voice boomed the narration while lights picked out the parts of the house that the voice was talking about.

  “The guys downstairs know that show backwards,” said Ken. “They say there’s bits that will scare the daylights out of them quilters. And there’s ways to pick them bits out.”

  With their shortage of thumbs, it would be a long, slow job for mice to edit that soundtrack and fish out the scary bits. But a human could do it, fast. So if Mr. Jake could come along to the control room, they’d get started.

  “Wait!” said Jake. “There’s no electricity!”

  “Thought of that, didn’t I?” said Ken. “I put it to the chief mouse electrician. ‘Whatcher going to do about electricity?’ I said. ‘Not a problem,’ he said. ‘Different circuit.’ He’s checked them fuses and no worries.”

  That left one little problem, of course. How can you explain to a group of rain forest experts that you’ve suddenly learned some extremely interesting facts about a sound-and-light show from a very mysterious source?

  Joey had the answer. You send for John the footman, and ask him questions about sound-and-light shows, and look surprised at the answers, even though you know them already. Then you all go back into the living room and lay out your plan to the others.

  John the footman took the duke’s flashlight and led Jake and Joey to the sound-and-light control room, with Trey riding in Joey’s pocket to translate, and Sir Quentin in Jake’s.

  Sir Quentin?

  “Bet he knows more about English history than anybody,” Jake had whis
pered to Megan and her mom. “He can help us pick out the best bits.”

  On the way they called in at a storeroom for more candles, and it was by the flickering light of a candle that John made his way back to the South Tower, ten minutes later.

  “They didn’t want me to stick around, for some reason,” he said. “But he said it’s a lovely setup, your Mr. Fisher did. The bees’ knees. And he’ll have something for them quilters in fifteen minutes. Something they’ll never forget.”

  Then John took off to warn the palace staff clustered by candlelight in the servants’ hall: it was about to get noisy, but they mustn’t worry. Those Americans had everything under control.

  Once John had left the little control room, Joey and Jake could let themselves be blown away by the mouse power waiting for them. Two media mice told them exactly which switches did what. A psychology mouse was on hand to give his opinion on which parts of the script would be most effective at frightening humans, and three history mice (with some suggestions from Sir Quentin) helped them pick those parts out.

  Editing was easy. Jake played the recording, and when he came to a useful phrase a director mouse raised a paw. Jake then pressed the copying key until the paw came down again.

  There were parts of that script that could have been written for modern times. Could have been written for quilters. Like one part that dealt with the seventeenth century:

  Civil war is raging throughout England. The Duke of Wiltshire and his followers remain loyal to King Charles. But the rebel Roundheads are drawing closer, and reach the woods around Buckford Hall. Imagine that [paw up] tonight, you are surrounded [paw down].

  Then:

  In 1723, a terrible fire ravaged Buckford Hall. The family and all the servants had to [paw up] come outside [paw down] to watch in horror. Imagine you must run for your life, [paw up] leaving all your belongings behind [paw down].