by Kaye Umansky
It sounded as though something metallic was being dragged down a flight of steps.
“What is it?” whispered Clover. She stood up and moved forward to the bars. She couldn’t see him, but she knew Wilf was there because she could hear him breathing.
“Do you believe in ghosts?” whispered Wilf.
“No. Of course not. Don’t be so silly”
The sound was coming closer. There were no longer any pauses. Just a constant clinking, as though the object was now being dragged over a rough surface.
Clinkclinkclinkclinkclinkclinkclink.
And then …
… a familiar furry figure came trotting out of the shadows.
“Neville!” gasped Clover. “Wilf, it’s Neville.”
It was too. Even more astonishing—from his mouth dangled a large brass key! It hung from a ring which was gripped between his jaws. The key was so long that the end brushed the floor.
With some relief, Neville lowered his head and dropped the heavy key directly before Wilf’s door. He pushed it with his paw and sat back, looking smug.
Wilf stooped, fumbled under the bars, and grabbed the key. He stood with it in his hands, turning it over in wonderment.
“I don’t get it,” said Wilf. “Where’d he get this from? Where’s he been? How did he know …”
“Something’s happened to him,” said Clover. “Look at him. He’s … different.”
They both stared hard at Neville, who gave a vigorous nod. He then raised his right paw and briskly tapped the side of his head.
“Miaw,” he said, brightly.
“Either I’m going mad,” said Wilf, “Or is he—agreeing with you?”
Neville gave a frustrated little sigh, lowered his paw, and drummed his claws. That was the trouble with humans. They were so slow to catch on.
“Neville?” said Clover, slowly.
“Miaw?”
“Can you actually understand what we’re saying?”
“Miaw!”
“Does that mean miaw yes or miaw no?” asked Wilf. “I think we need some sort of code here …”
He broke off as the door to the guard room crashed open. Hastily, Wilf thrust the key into his pocket. Clover backed away from the bars.
“Are you two talkin’ again?” snarled Humperdump. “I thought I told you to … ooh. Hello, pussycat. What you doin’ down ’ere, eh?”
He lowered his huge bulk and tickled Neville behind the ear. Neville arched his back and purred delightedly.
“I bet you’re one o’ Miss Fly’s, ain’t you? Well, you shouldn’t be down ’ere. She’ll be missin’ you. She’ll be …”
Humperdump stopped. He had suddenly had a vision. A vision of him triumphantly returning the cat to the arms of his frantic beloved, whose gratitude would know no bounds. She would come running down the corridor to meet him and throw herself into his arms.
A romantic poem and a successfully returned cat all in one morning. How could she resist?
Chapter Twenty-Five
Escape from the Castle
“Mum?” said Humperdump, bursting into the kitchens. He was panting heavily and had his arms full of Neville.
“Humpy!” cried Mrs. Chunk, clattering around the stove. “Sit down. I’ll do your chops as soon as I’ve got a minute.”
“It ain’t that, mum. I gotta go somewhere. Where’s the key?”
“Ain’t it in the door? Mr. Squint said he’d left it.”
“Well, it ain’t there. I got unattended prisoners down there. I’m s’posed to lock it.”
“He must ‘ave taken it with him,” said Mrs. Chunk, soothingly. “Calm down, son, I’ll keep an eye open. Oh.” She paused. “I see you got that funny old cat. He was in here earlier, beggin’ for scraps. I wondered where he went.”
“Wandered down the dungeons,” said Humperdump. “I’m personally takin’ him up to Miss Fly.”
“There’s a good boy. She’ll be pleased.”
“That’s what I’m hopin’, Mum. That’s what I’m hopin’.”
Back down in the dungeons, Wilf was having trouble with the key. He couldn’t see what he was doing. The heavy padlock faced outwards, and he had to thread his clumsy hands through the bar.
“He winked,” said Clover. “Over Chunk’s shoulder, he winked at us.”
“I know,” said Wilf. “I saw. Oh, blast!”
His fingers lost their grip and the key fell to the floor outside the cell. He fell to his knees and tried to reach it under the bars.
“You know what’s happened, don’t you?” Clover went on.
“Of course I do. Ouch, the skin’s coming off my arm …”
“You don’t, though, do you?”
“Ah, got it, I’ll try again. What?”
“You don’t know why Neville’s gone all brainy. I do. I’ve worked it out.”
“All right, so tell me. Why is Neville brainy?”
“Didn’t you notice? He smelled of anise. He’s taken the Changeme Serum. He must have been hiding in the cottage and found the bottle. Maybe it broke and he lapped it off the floor. That means he’s got an hour’s worth of intelligence, if it works the same on cats as it does humans.”
“Cripes,” said Wilf. “I do believe you’re right. That’s not much time. I wonder how long it’s been since he took it?”
“Who knows? Anyway, he’s obviously worked out some sort of rescue plan. Hurry up before he goes back to normal and forgets it.”
“I’m trying, I’m trying! It’s the angle! Oh, blast, dropped it again!”
“You’d think he’d have had enough sense to give the key to me, not you. All that intelligence and he gives the key to the clumsy one. You’d think he’d—”
“Clover,” said Wilf, firmly. “I would really like you to stop talking now.”
Jimbo Squint stood outside Miss Fly’s door. He was getting tired of all this note delivering. There were an awful lot of steps to climb. He hoped this would be the last time.
Briskly, he rapped on the door.
There came a wailing from within, a cry of, “All right, darlings, let bubby through,” and the sound of slapping footsteps. The door opened, and Miss Fly peered out. Cats seethed around her ankles, purring and yowling.
“Yes?” she said, shortly. “What?”
“Got somethin’ for you, Miss Fly,” said Jimbo, holding out the note.
Miss Fly blushed scarlet, groped for a hanky and said, “I don’t want it.”
“You might,” said Jimbo. “It’s better than the others. Anyway, I’ve got to wait for a reply.”
Miss Fly shot out a hand, snatched the note, and brought it up close to her pink-rimmed eyes. Her lips tightened as she read it.
“You see?” said Jimbo. “Poetry. What’s the reply?”
“This,” said Miss Fly. Slowly and deliberately, she ripped the note in half. Then in quarters. Four pieces of paper fluttered to the floor.
“You don’t like him then,” said Jimbo.
“No!” screamed Miss Fly. “No, I do not! Tell hib to leave be alone!”
Humperdump toiled up the steps that led to his beloved’s room. He was gasping for breath and bathed in sweat. It was a long, steep climb from the dungeons to the upper levels, which is why he always sent Jimbo. He hoped it would be worth the effort.
Neville had clawed his way up to his favorite position—draped across the shoulders. He was feeling very pleased with himself. So far, everything had gone according to plan. Get Revenge On Booboo—check. Explore Castle—check. Have Breakfast—check. Steal Key From Lock (not easy because of cat limitations but problem eventually overcome with help of new found intelligence)—check. Take Key To Children—check. Now all that was left was Create Diversion.
Neville was looking forward to that.
“Done it!”
There was a squeal, and the padlock was finally open. Wilf pushed on the bars, and the door swung open, sending him sprawling on his knees in the passage way.
“Hurry
up,” fretted Clover, as he picked himself up and approached her cell, triumphantly waving the key.
“I’m doing it,” said Wilf, inserting it upside down into the lock. “These locks are rusty you know, it’s not easy.”
“The other way up. Honestly!”
“I can see, I can see. Ah! That’s it!”
Finally, the key turned. Clover pushed on the door, which crashed into Wilf, sending him staggering back against the far wall, knocking one of the torches to the ground. Clover snatched it up, held it aloft, and stared down the dim passageway. At the far end, a flight of steps curved upwards into darkness.
“Right,” said Clover. “This is it. Are you ready?”
“Ready as I ever will be.”
“Then let’s get out of here!”
Miss Fly was clearly not a poetry lover. Not only had she torn up Humperdump’s love note, she was now grinding the pieces under her heel.
“I will not have it!” she was shouting, in a high, trembling voice. “I will not be pestered in this way …”
She broke off. Her eyes widened as she looked beyond Jimbo’s shoulder. A huge, red-faced, panting figure had emerged from the top of the stairway He was holding out a cat. A strange black cat with yellow eyes. It just hung there, back legs and tail dangling, showing no signs of distress. It didn’t look bothered at all.
“Here he is, tell ’im yerself,” said Jimbo, sulkily, and turned on his heel.
“Where you goin’, Jimbo?” inquired Humperdump, as he scuttled past.
“Back down to the dungeons. Don’t get yer ear chewed off there.”
“Where’s the key? Mum said you got it.”
“I ain’t got it. I left it in the lock …”
“What,” squawked Miss Fly suddenly, “are you doing here, Chunk?”
“Miss Fly,” wheezed Humperdump. He lumbered across the landing and wobbled to a halt. “It’s all right, you can stop frettin’. I’ve found ’im.”
“What?”
“The cat. Look.” Humperdump held out Neville as though he was presenting a bunch of beautiful flowers. “I knewed you’d be missin’ ’im, so I brought ’im back.”
“What are you talking about!” cried Miss Fly. “That’s not one of by cats. I’ve never seen this cat in by life.”
“Eh?”
“These are by cats,” shrieked Miss Fly, pointing at her ankles, which were rapidly becoming submerged in a rising tide. More and more cats were squeezing through the doorway, curious to see what all the fuss was about. Some of them had spotted Neville and were beginning to growl. The big tortoiseshell was hissing. Tails were beginning to swish.
Oh-ho, thought Neville. Think you’re tough, eh? Right.
And without further ado, he sank his teeth into Humperdump’s meaty hand.
Clover and Wilf came pounding up the dungeon steps. They stepped through an archway and found themselves in a deserted stone corridor, lit here and there by candles placed in niches in the walls.
“Which way to the courtyard?” gasped Wilf. “Do you remember?”
“To the right, I think.”
“I thought it was left.”
“No, I’m positive it’s right. Come on.”
“Just let me check,” said Wilf. “I’ll only go a little way. Just along to the corner. Wait there.”
He sprinted along the corridor. Clover saw him peering cautiously around the corner. He clapped a hand to his mouth and came hurrying back.
“You’re right,” he said. “That way leads to the kitchens. The door’s ajar. There’s people in there working.”
“Told you,” said Clover. “It’s this way. Give me the key”
“What? Why?”
“Because there are three other doors, I counted when we came in. And the big gates leading into the courtyard. We’ll be all day if you muck about like last time.”
“Well, thanks.”
“Don’t look so cross. You can hold the torch.”
“That’s not much of a job. Anyway, it’s gone out. It’s not a torch, it’s just a big, charred stick.”
“Right. If we run into anybody, whack ’em with it.”
Mesmeranza was standing before her wardrobe debating what to wear when she heard the noise.
It was a terrible, ear-splitting squalling, and it set the teeth on edge. Intermingled with the squalling were raised voices and a single, piercing scream.
Mesmeranza strode to the door and wrenched it open. Her eyes widened in disbelief.
The landing outside her room was a heaving sea of panicked cats!
Some were trying to wriggle under the rug. One was halfway up a wall hanging, and another was dangling from the chandelier. Another had leapt into the open visor of a suit of armor and was peering out with terrified eyes. A small ginger was honking up a fur ball under a side table.
Neville came streaking down the stairs, fur on end and eyes like twin devil moons. He had always prided himself on holding his own in a fight, but his new brain made him an unstoppable force of nature. Brute force plus tactics, no less. He was invincible!
He could herd! He could confuse! He could send ‘em diving for cover, whack ’em round the ears, drive ‘em into corners, or send ’em swarming up the walls!
Miss Fly’s cats, on the other hand, had no such advantage. They were just cats. They slept on her bed, and they were spoiled. They couldn’t cope with the demon that had suddenly landed in their midst, running at them in a knowing sort of way, driving them out of their room and down the stairs and making them all scared and befuddled. They were very vocal in their protests. The noise was deafening.
“Stop it!” came a shrill squeal from on high. “Oh stop it, you naughty beast!”
Miss Fly came slapping down the stairs, shedding hankies.
“Fly?” shrieked Mesmeranza. “What the devil is going on here? Get your beastly cats back where they belong!”
She stuck out her foot to try to prevent the cats from entering her room, but to no avail. Sensing temporary sanctuary, they simply skittered past her ankles. Some of them shot under the bed. Three small kittens made for the curtains, swarmed up, and hung there, squeaking.
“Get down, you little wretches, those are silk!”
Mesmeranza strode across to the window and plucked them off one by one. She was about to turn away when something in the courtyard caught her eye.
Chapter Twenty-Six
I’ve Got a Big Charred Stick,
Stan the sentry was roused from slumber by the sound of running footsteps. He started, snorted, and rubbed his bleary eyes. He had been asleep for ages. Nobody had come to relieve him, and nobody was looking, so in the end he had just sat down on the doorstep and nodded off.
And now, just when he was feeling all tired and fuzzy, he was required to leap into action—because —wouldn’t you just know it? The prisoners had escaped! They were racing towards him across the courtyard. One of them—the gangly boy with the red hair—was waving a big, charred stick.
Stan struggled to his feet. Where was his spear?
There it was, leaning against the door. He grabbed it and pointed it at the prisoners.
“Halt!” said Stan. “Who goes there!”
“We do,” said the boy. “Out of the way, we’re go-ing in.”
“I don’t think so,” said Stan, nervously.
“Give me one good reason why not,” said the boy.
“Um. I’ve got a spear?”
“Ah, but I’ve got a big, charred stick.”
“You’re holding your spear the wrong way round,” said the girl, helpfully pointing. “Try the pointy end.”
Uncertainly, Stan looked down to check. The boy stepped sideways. There was a sharp pain at the back of Stan’s knees, and his legs buckled beneath him. His spear clattered to the ground, and his helmet fell off and rolled away.
“See?” said Wilf. “The stick wins.” And he stepped over Stan, pushed open the cottage door, and went in.
“You should be ca
reful with spears,” scolded Clover. “I’ll take this before you hurt yourself.”
She snatched up the spear and followed Wilf. The door slammed shut, and there was the sound of bolts being shot across.
At the same moment, a window flew open in the high tower. From somewhere in the background came the distinct sound of yowling cats.
“Guard!” shrieked Mesmeranza. “Get up, you fool! Stop them!”
Inside the cottage, Clover sprinted towards the private cupboard.
“I’ll summon Bernard,” she said. “You fend off the sentry.”
There came a thunderous knocking at the door. “Hey!” came Stan’s desperate voice. “Hey, come out! You’re not allowed!” His anxious face appeared at the shattered kitchen window.
“Get back!” roared Wilf, advancing towards the window, wildly waving his stick. “I’m warning you!”
“Give me my spear,” said Stan.
“No!”
“Please,” pleaded Stan. “It’s embarrassing.”
He glanced over his shoulder. People were beginning to arrive in the courtyard to see what all the fuss was about. He was very aware that he didn’t look good. Stan placed a hand on the window sill. Wilf brought the stick down hard on his knuckles. Stan reeled back with his fist in his mouth.
“What’s happening, Clover?” shouted Wilf.
“I’m looking for the manual! I can’t see it!”
“Can’t you remember the words?”
“No! Oh, where is it?”
“Well, you’d better hurry up, because we’ve got company!”
And indeed they had. More people were pouring into the courtyard, and everyone was pointing and shouting. The Captain of the guard came racing from the guardhouse. The courtyard was slick with rain, and his polished boots slipped from under him. He went into a long slide, colliding with one of the maids, who fell over with a surprised little scream, knocking over a boot boy on her way down.
And then the main door of the castle burst open, and out streamed a stampede of panic-stricken cats! They flowed down the steps and spread out over the courtyard, howling and spitting and getting under everyone’s feet. In their wake came Miss Fly, wringing her hands and wailing their names.