Goldwhiskers

by Heather Vogel Frederick

  ‘Tut-tut!’ said Goldwhiskers. ‘Mind your manners. Wait for Dodge.’

  There was a scraping sound as someone – Dodge, presumably, thought Glory – scaled the outside of the tea hamper, then landed with a small thump on the plate containing the scones. Glory hardly dared breathe. She strained to hear the trio of rats as they discussed Operation SMASH.

  ‘I can hardly wait until tomorrow!’ chortled Stilton Piccadilly. ‘The mice won’t know what hit them!’

  ‘The terror-rats of London town, that’s what!’ crowed Dupont.

  Glory shivered. She thought of what her father, the brave field mouse General Dumbarton Goldenleaf, had told her long ago. ‘Fear is a rat’s best weapon,’ he’d said. Just as calm, cool, collected thinking was hers.

  As the rats continued to boast, Glory’s fear turned to fury. If she had anything to say about it, Operation SMASH would be turned into Operation MASH instead: Mice and Short Humans, teamed against the rats, not the other way round.

  As the confections were lifted out and distributed to the waiting rats and orphans, Glory could hear excited murmurings and the smacking of rodent lips.

  ‘Does it smell like mice in here to you?’ Dupont asked suspiciously. Glory froze. Roquefort Dupont had a nose like a bloodhound.

  ‘Well, of course it does, you dolt,’ snapped Piccadilly. ‘We’re nearly overrun with mouselings. Not to mention that vile pet of yours. Who smells dreadful, by the way.’

  ‘He’s not my pet; he’s my slave,’ said Dupont, sounding peeved.

  ‘Whatever. You should give him a bath. He reeks of herring.’

  ‘I thought for a moment I caught a whiff of – never mind,’ grumbled Dupont. ‘Impossible. Throw me one of those cucumber sandwiches.’

  For a few minutes all that could be heard was the enthusiastic crunching and slurping and burping that accompanied a rat feast. Glory wrinkled her nose in disgust. Rats were so revolting.

  ‘Now that you’ve learned to read, perhaps it’s time to learn some manners,’ Goldwhiskers said disapprovingly.

  ‘Well, la-de-da and pardon me,’ said Piccadilly. ‘Sewer manners always used to be good enough for you, Double G.’

  ‘Anybody want this last scone?’ Dupont asked. Not waiting for the others to reply, he whisked it out of the tea hamper.

  Inside the pastry, Glory clutched desperately for a pawhold. Oh, no! she thought wildly, as the scone tumbled on to the carpet. A second later she heard Dupont attack it hungrily, snuffling and gnawing at it. She recoiled in terror as his long, scabby snout broke through to her hiding place. As his razor-sharp teeth snapped closer and closer, she scrunched up into a tiny ball.

  Suddenly, the snout withdrew. Glory looked around frantically for an escape route. There was none.

  A fiery red eye appeared in the hole in the side of the scone. It widened when it spotted her. ‘Well, well, well,’ Dupont growled softly. ‘What have we here? Looks like Santa Claws brought my present a day early.’

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  DAY TWO – TUESDAY 1730 HOURS

  Oz glanced over at Priscilla Winterbottom. Thanks to a royal reprieve – the Queen was a big fan of Lavinia Levinson’s, and therefore willing to give her the benefit of the doubt until proven guilty – the Christmas Eve concert was going forward as planned. Oz and DB and Priscilla, along with Luigi Levinson and a pair of policemen, were seated in the front row at the Royal Opera House watching the two sopranos warm up for the evening’s concert.

  Oz squirmed in his red velvet seat. Priscilla was looking far too pleased with herself. Oz knew that expression well. He’d seen it on the faces of countless sharks over the years, right before they attacked. She was definitely up to something. He just wished he knew what it was.

  The theft of the Crown Jewels had given her an advantage, of course. She was only too happy to rub his and DB’s noses in the fact that they were the prime suspects.

  ‘Suppose this is the last concert your mum will sing for a while, huh?’ gloated Priscilla.

  ‘Shut up,’ said Oz.

  Priscilla sneezed. ‘They have special jails over here for kids like you, you know,’ she continued, ignoring him. She fished a hankie out of her purse and wiped her nose. ‘Nasty places with spiders and beetles. They don’t give you any blankets, and there’s nothing but mouldy bread and cheese to eat. You’ll never get to see your mum and dad, either.’

  Oz’s father glanced over at them, and Oz thought he saw a flicker of sympathy in his eyes. But he didn’t say anything.

  DB scowled. ‘Mind your own business, Slushbutt.’

  ‘Or what?’ taunted Priscilla Winterbottom. ‘Or you’ll steal my mother’s jewels too?’

  She whipped round, ferret-like, as Nigel Henshaw approached. Just as the younger boy reached the aisle seat where she was sitting, Priscilla stuck out her foot. He tripped and fell, banging his elbow against one of the seat backs. Nigel let out a yowl of pain, and his father threw down his baton in exasperation. The music ground to a halt.

  ‘Didn’t I remind you right before rehearsal to keep quiet?’

  ‘But she –’ the boy protested, pointing at Priscilla, whose hands were folded primly in her lap, the picture of innocence. Just like a shark, thought Oz in disgust.

  ‘I’m sorry, son, but you’ll have to stay backstage,’ said Mr Henshaw, tapping his baton impatiently on his music stand. ‘We can’t have interruptions out here. The musicians need to concentrate. Go to my dressing room and stay there.’

  Cradling his wounded elbow, Nigel ducked his head in embarrassment and turned to go. As he passed Priscilla’s seat, she discreetly stuck out her tongue. Then she sneezed again.

  Prudence Winterbottom stepped forward. She peered over the floodlights, shading her eyes with her hand. ‘Priscilla?’ she called, sounding worried. ‘Is that you? You’re not coming down with something, are you?’

  Priscilla shook her head and blew her nose vigorously into her hankie.

  ‘Can’t have you honking like a goose during the concert, darling,’ said her mother. ‘I’ll round up some cough syrup for you. There’s some in my dressing room.’

  ‘I hate cough syrup,’ Priscilla whined. ‘It makes me sleepy.’

  ‘That’s better than sneezy,’ replied her mother.

  ‘How about Grumpy and Dopey?’ whispered Oz to DB, who stifled a giggle.

  Prudence Winterbottom took her place onstage again, and the music picked up where it left off. Oz recognized the opening chords to ‘White Christmas’.

  ‘Cue fog!’ the stage manager called out. ‘Cue boxes!’

  As if by magic, a pair of enormous boxes gaily wrapped in shiny foil and topped with huge bows rose through the stage floor. Lavinia Levinson took a seat on the red one; Prudence Winterbottom sat down on the silver one. The two sopranos tilted their heads towards each other and began to sing.

  ‘Bravo!’ cheered Luigi Levinson when they finished. The two divas stood up and took a bow, smiling at him. The presents they had been sitting on slowly descended again beneath the stage.

  Oz jumped as DB elbowed him in the side. ‘What’s Slushbutt up to?’ she said.

  Oz looked over to see the British soprano’s daughter heading towards the lobby.

  ‘I don’t know. Let’s see if we can find out,’ Oz whispered back. He turned to the policeman beside him. ‘Sir? I need to use the toilet.’

  ‘Me too,’ said DB.

  ‘I’ll take them, Simon,’ said the other policeman, rising to his feet. He herded them out to the lobby. Oz caught a flash of blue from Priscilla Winterbottom’s dress as she disappeared down a nearby corridor.

  ‘Be quick about it,’ said the policeman, heading towards his colleagues, who were clustered by the entrance to the opera house. ‘And, remember, I’ve got my eye on you.’

  ‘This way,’ said Oz, pulling DB down the corridor where Priscilla had disappeared. He glanced over his shoulder. The policemen were already deep in conversation. Instead of ducking into the toilets,
Oz and DB continued on down the corridor. Way at the end was a door marked BACKSTAGE. They watched as Priscilla pushed it open and walked through.

  ‘Where’s she going?’ asked DB.

  ‘Probably thought of another way to make Nigel’s life miserable,’ said Oz.

  ‘You don’t think she’s just getting cough syrup?’

  Oz shot her a look. ‘Please. This is Slushbutt we’re talking about, remember?’ Looking back over his shoulder again – no policemen in sight – Oz darted through the backstage door.

  ‘How will we ever find her?’ said DB as she stared at the maze of corridors and stairwells that made up the behind-the-scenes world of the Royal Opera House.

  ‘My mother’s a diva, remember?’ said Oz, steering her confidently along. ‘I grew up backstage. Ha! I knew it. There she is!’

  They hung back and watched as Priscilla Winterbottom passed right by the conductor’s dressing room and disappeared through another door beyond. Oz frowned.

  ‘It’s not Nigel she’s after, then,’ said DB. ‘Where does that door go?’

  ‘Underneath the stage,’ replied Oz, sounding puzzled.

  ‘Why is she going down there?’

  ‘Beats me.’

  They followed, ducking behind a large crate marked AIDA ELEPHANT when she finally came to a stop. A few yards away in the under-stage gloom, Priscilla Winterbottom glanced around furtively. Satisfied that no one was watching, she tiptoed over to where the two giant presents that had been onstage just a few moments before were resting on the hydraulic platform that carried them up and down. Priscilla opened a large chest that stood on the floor nearby and took out a small package wrapped in newspaper. Then she slid open the back of the box wrapped in red foil.

  ‘Isn’t that the one your mom was sitting on?’ whispered DB.

  Oz nodded. He frowned as Priscilla placed the newspaper-wrapped package inside the big box, then slid the back of it closed again. Looking around once more, she ran back towards the stairway. Oz and DB held their breath as she passed their hiding place.

  ‘What the heck was that all about?’ asked DB after she was gone.

  Oz stood up and crossed to the chest. It was insulated, just like the one his dad used when he took him on fishing trips. He lifted the lid. His eyes widened. ‘Dry ice,’ he said in surprise.

  ‘Dry what?’

  ‘Ice. It’s used in theatres all the time. It makes fog onstage. The stage manager must be planning to use it for the finale. To make it look like winter.’

  ‘Yeah, I heard her say, “Cue fog!” But what would Slushbutt want dry ice for?’

  Oz pushed at his glasses. He looked at the ice chest, then at the foil-wrapped present his mother had been sitting on. He reached over and tapped the huge box. It gave a metallic ring. He groaned.

  ‘I can’t believe she’d do this!’

  ‘Do what?’

  ‘Don’t you get it? This box is made of metal, DB. Dry ice will freeze it in nothing flat. The sequins on my mother’s dress will stick to it when she sits down!’

  ‘Like last week, after the snowstorm, when Jordan and Tank made you lick the metal swing-set pole on the playground?’ said DB.

  ‘Thanks for reminding me,’ Oz replied, reddening. ‘But yes, exactly.’

  ‘And when she goes to stand up at the very end and take her bow…’ said DB slowly, putting two and two together.

  ‘The bottom half of her dress won’t come with her,’ said Oz. ‘She’ll be standing onstage in her underwear. In front of the Queen!’

  ‘Priscilla Winterbottom is a weasel!’ said DB angrily.

  ‘Shark,’ corrected Oz. ‘And a saboteur, to boot.’ He opened the back of the present and removed the small newspaper-wrapped package.

  ‘A what?’

  ‘Saboteur. Like sabotage, you know? Someone who damages something deliberately, or destroys somebody’s efforts. I learned about it at the –’

  ‘Spy Museum,’ finished DB. ‘Should have known.’ She placed her hands on her hips. ‘So Slushbutt thought she was going to give your mom a real “winterbottom”, did she? Well, she’s got another think coming. I’m going to march right upstairs and tell the police.’

  Oz grabbed her arm. ‘No, DB. Wait. We can’t let Priscilla know that we discovered her plan. She’ll just come up with something else if we do. Something even more horrible. We’ve got to pretend we’re completely clueless.’

  DB crossed her arms over her chest and frowned. ‘That’s your plan? Just pretend we’re clueless?’

  Oz gave her a conspiratorial smile. ‘Don’t worry. I think maybe there’s a way to turn the tables.’ He dropped the newspaper-wrapped package back into the insulated freezer chest, closed the lid, then pointed to the crate where they’d been hiding. ‘That gave me an idea.’

  DB looked over at it. She read the label and sighed. ‘Let me guess,’ she snapped. ‘We get to dress up, and I get stuck being the back end of an elephant this time. Forget it, Oz! I’ve had enough of costumes.’

  Oz’s smile widened to a grin. ‘Not an elephant, DB, and this time we won’t be the ones wearing the costume, I promise. Come on, we have to find Nigel. We’re going to need his help.’

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  DAY TWO – TUESDAY 1730 HOURS

  ‘You’ll never get away with this,’ said Glory calmly. Dupont had her by the tail and was dangling her upside down in front of Goldwhiskers and Stilton Piccadilly. ‘The building is surrounded.’

  Goldwhiskers looked down at her from his red leather chair. ‘Is that so?’ he sneered. ‘Let’s take a look, shall we?’ He tapped a series of commands on to his laptop keyboard, and the screen on the wall flickered to life. An array of security cameras zoomed in on 80 Strand from every possible angle, showing nothing but humans, cars, buses and the rest of the normal traffic that clogged the busy street, and the entrance at the back by Embankment Gardens. ‘Hmmmm. Not a mouse – let alone a Royal Guard – in sight. Are you sure about that?’

  ‘She’s lying,’ snarled Dupont. ‘I’d stake my tail on it.’

  Goldwhiskers regarded Glory speculatively. ‘That may well be, but I’ll give her points for nerve. She certainly has guts, for a mouse. Put her down for a minute, would you, Dupont?’

  Dupont growled reluctantly, gave Glory a hard shake, then released his grasp. She fell to the floor with a thud. Glory lay there for a few seconds, pretending to be stunned, while she tried to gather her wits. She was in a tight spot. The tightest, perhaps, that she had ever been in. Trapped in a room with two of the worst rats in history, plus one wild card: this D. G. Whiskers, Esquire, or Goldwhiskers. She tried not to think about the fact that she might not make it out alive. Stiffen your tail, Goldenleaf, she told herself. You’re a Silver Skateboard agent, and you have a job to do. She picked herself up slowly and brushed off her soft brown fur. She had to stall for time. That at least might give Bubble a chance to escape.

  One thing was clear: Goldwhiskers was the rat in control here. Glory smiled up at him. ‘The name is Goldenleaf,’ she said coolly. ‘Morning Glory Goldenleaf.’

  ‘James Bond fan, are we?’ replied the big rat with a soft chuckle. ‘Playing at spy games?’ He leaned down from his red leather chair. ‘You know what happens to spies that get caught, don’t you?’ He drew one sharp claw across his throat.

  Glory swallowed nervously. She glanced around the richly appointed room. Dozens of mouselings clustered along the walls, staring at her wide-eyed. She spotted Fumble, half hidden behind Dupont.

  ‘What, no “Morning, Glory?”’ she asked her former colleague scornfully. ‘What’s the matter, rat got your tongue? Is this what you’ve sunk to, then, Fumble – exploiting innocent mouselings for some greedy windbag? Looks like you and Dupont have been on a diet too.’ Glory wrinkled her nose and sniffed the air. ‘Fish, huh? Peeee-eeeeew. I suppose I should say, “I smell a traitor!”’

  Fumble stared at her defiantly for a few seconds. Then his gaze faltered, and he slumped on to the
carpet. Glory turned back to Goldwhiskers. ‘The jig is up, Goldwhiskers,’ she said. ‘We know all about the Crown Jewels. And the kidnappings, and all the other robberies. You can’t get away with it.’

  ‘Oh, can’t I? Watch me,’ Goldwhiskers replied, stroking the Koh-i-Noor. He looked over at Dupont and Piccadilly. ‘She’s got spirit. I like that in a mouse. And she’s amusing. Much more amusing than you two.’ He turned back to Glory. ‘Tell me, Miss Goldenleaf – I love your name, by the way – what would it take for you to come and work for me?’ He reached out a paw, and Dodge rummaged through the box on the table beside him. She pulled out a diamond bracelet and handed it to Goldwhiskers. He dangled it in front of Glory.

  Glory’s mouth dropped open. She couldn’t believe her ears. Goldwhiskers was trying to bribe her!

  ‘I’ll triple your current salary,’ he offered. ‘Room and board included, plenty of holiday time. Plus I offer a generous retirement plan.’

  ‘She’ll never do it,’ sneered Dupont.

  ‘If I want your opinion, I’ll ask for it,’ snapped Goldwhiskers. The big rat leaned down and draped the bracelet round Glory’s neck. ‘I’ll bet you don’t see the likes of these on what the Spy Mice Agency pays you,’ he whispered silkily. ‘Diamonds are forever, or haven’t you heard?’

  Glory stroked the strand of sparkling jewels and flashed him her most flirtatious Mata Furry smile. She crooked her paw at him, and Goldwhiskers glanced over at Dupont triumphantly. He leaned down closer to Glory.

  ‘You want me to be a Fumble?’ Glory murmured.

  ‘Hardly,’ Goldwhiskers murmured back in reply. ‘I’m offering you employment, not slavery. And I’d never keep you on a lead, I promise. Not even a diamond one. How about it?’

  ‘How about…NEVER!’ cried Glory, spitting in the big rat’s eye.

  ‘Told you so,’ said Dupont smugly.

  Glory whipped the diamond bracelet from round her neck. ‘Diamonds are a mouse’s best friend, or haven’t you heard?’ she retorted, looping it around Goldwhiskers’s snout and giving it a sharp jerk. The big rat shrieked and toppled forward out of his chair. Glory leaped out of the way as he crashed to the floor.