by Will Mabbitt
Reaching into a small velvet bag, Govvel pulled out a fluffy yellow chick and placed it carefully in the Grand Zhool’s mouth, which slowly closed with a small, soft cracking noise.
Sir Timothy Speke coughed politely. He was looking at the Zhool with one eye closed, framing him between his small webbed paws.
“If you’d just hold still a moment, Your Grace. I’m trying to capture your, erm . . . regal stateliness before the sun sets.”
He looked nervously out of the window.
Govvel sneered.
“And make sure you do. The first artist we hired made it look like he was
“I say, how jolly!”
The gopher shook his head.
“It was the last portrait he ever painted.”
Speke giggled nervously and rubbed out the smile he had drawn. Then he knelt down behind his small cart of paints, saying, “I’ll just fetch some crimson. For the, er, gums.”
He lowered his voice to a whisper. “Carruthers? Carruthers? Are you receiving me?”
A secret panel in the cart slid open and a very squashed-looking badger peered out.
“Of course I am,” he hissed back. “I’m right here, remember?”
“I’m scared, Carruthers,” whispered Speke. “It’s the fur coat, you know. Fur’s always difficult and every time I look at it, it seems to have moved slightly!”
“Nonsense, Timothy. I believe in you. You are the finest artist in all of CRUMBRIDGE, if not the whole of ALBEMARLE.”
“I say! Thanks, old boy. You know what? I do feel a bit better now.”
Carruthers’s paw held out a tube of red paint.
“It’s only horses you’re terrible at, Timothy. Your portrait of SIR FREDERICK GALLOPS was a real stinker. It looked like his legs were on back to front.”
“Now, Carruthers, that’s jolly unfair.”
“Steady yourself, Timothy. All we have to do is cause a distraction. Our timed
smoke grenade
will do that when we have safely left the palace. Then Mabel and the others will do the thievery.”
“Yes, they are rather good at that sort of thing, aren’t they?”
Speke looked around to check he wasn’t being overheard. Govvel was feeding the Grand Zhool another chick.
“Do you have the distraction ready?” he whispered.
There was the sound of a portly badger repositioning himself within a confined space, and a paw poked out of the hatch holding a small smoke bomb.
“Ripping!” squeaked Speke, taking it from him. “Just like the jolly japes we got up to at ST. CRISPIN’S SCHOOL FOR THE EXCEEDINGLY RICH.”
Carruthers pressed an angry eye to the hatch.
“Shush, Timothy! The smoke bomb is set to go off in one hour from now, when we are safely back aboard the Sunbeam. So, whatever you do, don’t remove the safety pin or the distraction will go off almost immediately.”
“You mean this one?” said Speke, holding out the removed safety pin toward the hatch.
CHAPTER 24
A Dirty Job
Make haste! The plushly carpeted corridors of the Grand Zhool’s palace may dampen the sound of our running footsteps, but I fear we will still be heard. Our plans to take up a stealthy position ready to document the next chapter of Carruthers and Speke’s mission have taken a turn for the worse.
A situation has occurred.
An emergency!
Curse these never-ending corridors, these unlabelled doors, these plaster busts of important dignitaries that stare expressionlessly as we scamper past!
Faster!
Throw caution to the wind, for time is running out.
This way!
No, that way!
A PLAGUE ON THIS PIOUS PALACE OF PRINCELY POMP!
We must find it.
We must—
Aha!
We have found it!
There! The door marked TOILET.
Open it! But take care no one is inside.
Me? No, you look first!
Empty?
Phew.
Incredible place, isn’t it? I’ll be checking your pockets later, so don’t feel tempted to pry one of those sapphires from the toilet seat. We must leave no evidence of ever having been here. For this toilet belongs to no ordinary person.
You can tell by the luxurious stoat-skin bottom-wiper.
Feel it.
Soft and
strong and
biodegradable!
Now put the stoat back in his cage. He has the most horrid of jobs and the unfortunate creature needs his rest.
But, yes, as you must by now have guessed, this is the personal en-suite bathroom of the Grand Zhool himself!
Anyway, back to the important matter in hand.
You wait here while I use the stall.
I beg your pardon? You’d rather I closed the door?
Well, if I must but—
WHAT WAS THAT?
Disaster!
I fear that my business will forever remain undone!
Quickly, reader, conceal yourself.
There is a grunting . . .
a groaning . . .
a moaning . . .
It’s coming from deep within this toilet bowl.
What else can it be but some foul creature of the underworld rising to the surface in search of a victim? What is this beast? This stinking, sewer-dwelling monstrosity . . .
It’s . . .
Grasping fingers grip the rim of the toilet.
It’s . . .
A face emerges, hair plastered to its head with fetid stinkwater.
It’s . . .
A body heaves itself out and collapses in a breathless heap upon the floor, then looks up and absentmindedly picks its nose.
IT’S MABEL JONES!
Yes, sodden, stinking Mabel Jones! She has braved the Filthpipe!
Another creature hauls itself free of the toilet. Jarvis. Similarly sodden and stinking.
Now a third. A silence falls upon the room as Omynus Hussh creeps from the bowl.
Stinking, filth-covered Mabel Jones wiped her face on her pajamas and looked around the bathroom. “We’ve got to find the Cryptogog,” she whispered.
Very, very slowly she pushed open the door to the Grand Zhool’s chambers.
A strange, thick smoke cloaked the room and chairs were overturned as though someone had recently let off a smoke bomb and a struggle had taken place.
“Speke and Carruthers’s distraction!” Mabel whispered to Jarvis.
Jarvis smiled. “Looks like their plan worked!”
Mabel nodded. “But it’s gone off a bit early.”
“So now what?”
“Now we search for the Cryptogog. Leonard said it’s a special box, but we don’t know what it looks like. We need to split up and—”
Omynus Hussh coughed politely.
“Is this it?”
He held out a small iron box with the word CRYPTOGOG written on the top.
Mabel Jones gawped.
“How did you do that?!”
Omynus grinned.
“I is the bestest thief ever,” he said, his furry face blushing slightly.
CHAPTER 25
Cracking the Cryptogog
The stars shine over the docks of Otom, their soft, sparkly light catching on the rolling tide and riding to the shore upon the gentle lapping waves. From the city comes the chime of the cathedral bells, which travels upon the warm and briny winds like—
You get the picture.
Basically it is fifteen minutes to midnight on the night before the FESTIVAL OF ST. STATHAM.
In the cabin of the Sunbeam, Mabel, Jarvis, and Omynus were examining the Cryptogog.
Jarvis tu
rned the box around in his hands.
“Maybe we should wait for Speke and Carruthers. They should have been back by now. I wonder where they’ve got to?”
Mabel frowned. “Perhaps something went wrong with the distraction.”
Jarvis looked at her over the box. “You don’t think they’ve been captured, do you?”
“Don’t worry, Jarvis. I’m sure they’ll turn up soon,” said Mabel. “Knowing Speke, they probably stopped off for tea and crumpets.”
Jarvis squinted at the box in his hands.
“Here . . . At first it seems like there’s no opening at all. No crack or anything. But look: five tiny hatches!”
Mabel peered closely. Sure enough, on a smaller end of the box there was a tiny circular hatch. She carefully tried to open it.
Nothing.
“‘Only the humble shall succeed,’” she muttered, remembering the words of Leonard the librarian. “‘The magic word, Mabel. What’s the magic word?’”
She looked at Jarvis.
“Do you know any magic words?”
“Alakazam?”
Nothing.
“Abracadabra!”
Nothing.
Omynus Hussh looked at the box. The fingers of his good hand danced nimbly across its iron surface, probing for some sort of weakness or a hidden switch.
“Even my lovely loris fingers can’t unpicks this,” he said in disgust.
Jarvis stood up and stretched.
“This could take a bit of time. Maybe we should have a snack?” he said, reaching for a tin of ship’s biscuits.
“There’s no time for snacks,” Mabel snapped. “We need to find the DOOMSDAY BOOK. The fate of the hooman race depends upon it. So does Pelf’s freedom and the safety of ALBEMARLE. We MUST get to it before Von Klaar!”
Her stomach rumbled.
“Pass the biscuits.”
Jarvis pushed the tin toward Mabel, but as she paused to choose between a plain or a weevil biscuit he snatched it away again. “What’s the magic word?”
Mabel gasped!
The answer had just tumbled from his mouth!
“Please! ‘Please’ is the magic word!”
She picked up the box and spoke.
“Please open, Cryptogog!”
And, with that humble request, there came a tiny scraping noise from within the box. Slowly the circular hatch rotated. A bit to the left. Then to the right. Then back to the left.
And then . . .
With a loud click, and for the first time since it had been sealed . . .
THE CRYPTOGOG OPENED!
Mabel and Jarvis looked at the circular hole.
A piece of sawdust fell out.
Then some more.
Then a wizened, wrinkled head emerged.
THE HEAD OF AN ANCIENT TORTOISE!
It blinked. Then coughed. Then spoke in a quiet rasping voice.
“I am the Cryptogog . . .”
It slowly moved its head to look at Mabel. Then slowly it looked at Jarvis.
“Two hooman snuglets,” it croaked, smiling.
Mabel gently placed the tortoise and its box on the deck.
The Cryptogog nodded his head slowly in thanks.
“You wish to learn of the location of the DOOMSDAY BOOK.”
He paused as, far out to sea, lightning danced across the sky, followed some seconds after by a roll of thunder.
“A book smuggled to me by a kind junior librarian and hidden in a location that only I know!”
Mabel and Jarvis nodded dumbly.
The tortoise continued.
“For ten long years I have remained in hibernation, awaiting the arrival of one so humble as to speak the magic word.”
He peered at them through crusty eyes.
“For only the humble can be trusted with the powerful secrets contained within the DOOMSDAY BOOK.”
He coughed again.
“And now I can finally share my secret. A secret kept for ten long years.”
The Cryptogog blinked. A look of worry crossed his face.
“I’m not sure I can remember, though. For I am old. A hundred years old.”
“You must remember!” pleaded Mabel.
The tortoise smiled.
“Ah yes. That’s it. I’ll start again. For ten long years I have remained in hibernation . . .”
He paused to cough some more.
Jarvis sighed. “We’ve done this bit. Could you skip to the location of the DOOMSDAY BOOK?”
The tortoise frowned.
“If you wish. For I have kept this secret for ten long years and I am a hundred years old . . .”
He paused for dramatic effect.
“The DOOMSDAY BOOK is hidden in the Grand Cathedral of Otom. I used to be the organist, you see.”
The Cryptogog coughed another dry cough.
“I fear my life is almost over. For I am a hundred years old and Death creeps nearer with every passing moment and now the secret needs to be spoken. Where was I? Ah yes . . . I have been in hibernation for ten long years. The DOOMSDAY BOOK is hidden in . . .”
He choked a little.
“The DOOMSDAY BOOK will be revealed when . . .”
Then, with a slight gurgle, the Cryptogog’s eyes slowly closed.
Mabel swallowed.
She looked at Jarvis.
“I think he’s . . .
I think he’s
dead.”
But he wasn’t.
With a gasp, the Cryptogog’s eyes opened wide with fear.
“May St. Statham have mercy on my soul! Death is upon me and my secret has not yet been told—for I have been alive for one hundred years and I have kept my secret for the last ten of those. The secret is . . .”
He coughed again. His eyes began to close.
“The secret is . . .”
Another cough.
“The secret is . . .”
“What?” exclaimed Mabel and Jarvis in unison.
“Cabbage.”
And, with that final word, the Cryptogog’s eyes rolled backward and his head lolled limply from the iron box.
Mabel swallowed again.
“I think he’s . . . dead.”
And this time he was.
CHAPTER 26
The Mummified Remains of St. Statham
Close your eyes in silent prayer, press your hands together in thankfulness, and cast the ashes of your dead gerbil Gavin into the warm wind that blows in from the Calm Blue Sea. For midnight has struck! THE FESTIVAL OF ST. STATHAM has begun!
Through the perfectly clean and tidy streets of Otom runs a never-ending stream of pilgrims, their procession lit by a thousand burning torches. All heading to the same place.
The magnificent . . .
The gargantuan . . .
The incredible . . .
Grand Cathedral of Otom!
We have seen it before. Its vast spire casts a long shadow over the city and over our story. At night it is even more impressive. Its gilded dome, reflecting the moonlight, shines like a beacon. A beacon that calls the followers of St. Statham from hundreds, nay, thousands of miles away.
Inside the cathedral, three shadowy figures push through the crowds high up in the gallery. The only three figures not awaiting the arrival of the Grand Zhool on this, the most holy of days. These figures have a different mission.
For somewhere inside this cathedral is hidden a book.
THE DOOMSDAY BOOK!
And, if Mabel Jones and her companions can find this book, then maybe, just maybe, the end of the hooman species can be averted, their friend Pelf freed, and war between ALBEMARLE and Alsatia prevented.
The three friends gather beside the large organ. Its gold
en pipes snake and twist upward into the vaulted ceiling.
Jarvis scratched his head. “The Cryptogog said he used to be the organist. Maybe we should start by looking here.”
Omynus Hussh, an expert finder-outer of hidden secrets, probed the niches of the ancient organ with the long and nimble fingers of his good hand.
“If it’s here, it’s hidden good and sneaksome, snuglets,” he muttered.
But, while her friends searched, Mabel’s mind was on other matters.
Where are Speke and Carruthers? Why didn’t they return to the Sunbeam?
Nothing had been seen of them since they had caused their distraction.
What if they’ve been caught?
Mabel thrust the thought to the back of her mind. They had to find the DOOMSDAY BOOK before Von Klaar got there first. After that, there would be time to find Speke and Carruthers.
Suddenly the chatter of the congregation hushed to a fearful silence. The moon had reached its zenith, and its light fell through the stained-glass window and shone a rainbow of light upon the High Altar, where a large hippopotamus stood, clad in a fur coat.
THE GRAND ZHOOL!
The Grand Zhool slowly turned from the altar to face the silent crowd, raising his fat hand in a solemn gesture of welcome.
“FRIENDS . . .”
His deep voice, amplified by the dome, echoed about the cathedral as though it was the voice of St. Statham himself.
Mabel’s eyes scanned the crowd. Maybe Speke and Carruthers were in the cathedral somewhere. It seemed like everyone in Otom was here.
The Grand Zhool smiled.
“Fellow followers of St. Statham, founder of the great city of Otom, we are here today to celebrate his memory.”
He paused. Not a creature moved.
“But on this most holy day a sordid, despicable filth gathers in our beautiful city. A toxic slime from the distant shores of a far-off land.”
The crowd stirred nervously. The Grand Zhool pressed his fat hands together and closed his wrinkle-lidded eyes.