Goldwhiskers

by Heather Vogel Frederick

  Oz stepped out of the doorway and looked around. Traffic whizzed by. Londoners rushed past him on the pavement in a steady stream, their arms loaded with Christmas packages. A group of carollers clustered beneath a nearby streetlight singing ‘God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen’. Oz didn’t feel even remotely merry. He’d never felt so completely alone and scared in all his young life.

  He turned the collar of his father’s coat up against the sharp December wind and crossed the street towards the waxworks museum.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  DAY TWO – TUESDAY 2030 HOURS

  ‘More chamomile tea, Priscilla?’

  DB and Priscilla Winterbottom – and Nigel Henshaw, who was not yet dressed as Oz – were seated in Lavinia Levinson’s dressing room. Onstage, the concert was well under way. The children had been requested to stay backstage until after the interval. Easier for the police to keep track of them that way, Scotland Yard had decided. Priscilla Winterbottom was not happy to have been included in this decision.

  ‘Just a tad bit more,’ said Priscilla, holding out her cup. ‘And I’ll take another biscuit as well. It’s the least you can do, after all, considering I’m stuck back here thanks to you. Where’s Oz?’

  ‘He’s in the restroom,’ said DB, filling her guest’s cup to the brim.

  Priscilla took a few sips, ate a piece of shortbread, then blew her nose into her hankie. ‘This is going to be an exciting evening,’ she said, smiling a sly ferret smile.

  ‘Very exciting,’ agreed DB, winking at Nigel.

  The younger boy fingered the MICE-6 badge on the collar of his shirt.

  ‘Haven’t seen that before, Nigel,’ Priscilla said sharply. ‘Are you a jewel thief now as well?’

  ‘Just a little souvenir I gave him,’ said DB smoothly.

  Priscilla, who was filled to the brim with cough syrup and chamomile tea, yawned. Nigel bent down and pretended to tie his shoe, then reached over and turned up the heater. Squeak had suggested making the dressing room as warm as possible. ‘That always worked in our nest back home when I was a mouseling and Mum wanted me to go to sleep,’ she’d said.

  Priscilla yawned again. ‘Too much excitement, I suppose,’ she said. ‘What with the Crown Jewels missing and all.’ She shot DB a smug look.

  DB just smiled. She pretended to yawn. Priscilla yawned back. ‘I could use a nap – how about you?’ DB said, patting the sofa cushions encouragingly. ‘It’s been a long day. What with being at Scotland Yard all night and everything, I mean.’

  ‘I don’t know how I’d be able to stand it, if I were you,’ said Priscilla, sipping more chamomile tea. ‘You might as well just confess. Everyone knows you did it. Scotland Yard knows it, the newspapers know it – everybody. You and Oz are nothing but common thieves. I shouldn’t even be in here with you. Who knows what you might do?’ She clutched the pearl necklace round her throat dramatically.

  DB gritted her teeth and smiled politely. She pretended to yawn again. Priscilla yawned back and glanced longingly at the sofa. ‘Maybe I will just close my eyes for a minute. Nigel?’ Her voice rose sharply.

  ‘Yes?’ the younger boy replied.

  ‘Wake me at the interval,’ Priscilla ordered. ‘And don’t forget. You know what will happen if you forget.’

  Nigel nodded unhappily. ‘Yes, Priscilla.’

  Priscilla Winterbottom stretched out on the sofa. DB quickly dimmed the lights. Nigel turned the heat up a bit more. As the girl’s eyelids drooped, Nigel quietly pulled on Oz’s dinner jacket. DB waited until Priscilla’s breathing was deep and even, then began stuffing the chest and belly of the jacket with cushions from the chairs. When she was done, she placed Oz’s glasses on Nigel’s nose and sat him down in a chair in the corner furthest from the door. ‘There,’ she said. ‘You’re Oz.’

  ‘He’s not Oz,’ mumbled Priscilla sleepily.

  There was a knock at the door. A policeman poked his head in. ‘Everything all right in here?’

  ‘Just fine, officer,’ said DB.

  ‘Oz is in the loo,’ mumbled Priscilla, her eyelids fluttering in a vain attempt to open them.

  ‘No, he’s not,’ said DB soothingly. ‘You were dreaming. He’s right here. Nigel is in the restroom.’

  The policeman peered at the bulky figure in the corner. ‘You kids make sure you stay put this time,’ he said. ‘No funny business.’

  ‘No, sir,’ said DB as he withdrew.

  ‘Let’s hope Oz gets back here on the double,’ DB whispered to Nigel. ‘If he’s not back by the interval, our goose is cooked.’

  ‘I love cooked goose,’ Priscilla murmured, and started to snore.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  DAY TWO – TUESDAY 2045 HOURS

  ‘Any sign of them?’ asked Squeak, hopping down off her pigeon’s back.

  ‘Not so much as a paw print,’ a Royal Guard replied. ‘A team of commandos just reported in, though – the office next door at 80 Strand is empty. Seems Goldwhiskers had a lair hidden in the attic above. It was empty too. They’re definitely on the move.’

  Squeak peered over the edge of the Savoy’s rooftop. She looked down the side of the hotel building to the street. She scanned the sky in all directions. ‘And you’re sure this is where they’re heading?’ she said doubtfully.

  The guard shrugged. ‘I’m just following orders. I hear there was some sort of a clue, or riddle. One of the whiz-whiskers down at MICE-6 decoded it and sent us here.’

  Squeak’s ears perked up at this. ‘Clue? What clue?’

  ‘Didn’t they fill you in?’

  Squeak shook her head. ‘We’ve been on kind of a tight schedule,’ she said. She pressed the button on the transmitter clipped to her fur. ‘Agent Savoy checking in.’

  ‘Ah, there you are, Squeak!’ Sir Edmund replied. ‘Ozymandias is on his way?’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ Squeak responded. ‘I understand there’s something about a clue?’

  ‘That’s right. This Goldwhiskers, as he likes to call himself, is toying with us.’ Her boss sounded annoyed. Squeak heard a rustling of paper and Sir Edmund continued, ‘He said, and I quote, “I’m going to take all these double-crossing, disobedient, disloyal mice on an outing tonight. A little Christmas Eve treat in London. Won’t that be fun?” Then he finished with this riddle:

  ‘Up on the rooftop the rodents pause,

  Lots of mouselings in their claws.

  Off for an evening of games and fun –

  We’ll come full circle when the night is done.

  Round and round we’ll go, then WHEE!

  I’ll be the last thing they ever SEE!’

  ‘That’s it?’ said Squeak.

  ‘That’s all of it.’

  Squeak was quiet for a moment. She gazed out across the Thames. It was a beautiful Christmas Eve, clear and cold. The sky was already alight with stars, and a full moon was rising. It was difficult to imagine that in just a couple of hours, unless they were able to stop it, the city would be under attack.

  ‘“Round and round we’ll go,”’ she mused. Her gaze came to rest on the enormous Ferris wheel downriver from the hotel. ‘Oh, no,’ she whispered. ‘“Whee”? Sir!’

  ‘Yes?’ Sir Edmund replied.

  ‘Goldwhiskers wasn’t talking about the Savoy at all!’ cried Squeak, leaping back on to her pigeon. ‘He’s heading for the London Eye! I’ve got to try and do something – we’ve given Oz the wrong coordinates for the SAS!’

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  DAY TWO – TUESDAY 2050 HOURS

  DB looked at the clock. Ten minutes until the interval. Where was Oz?

  ‘We can’t wait any longer,’ she said finally. ‘We’ve got to get this show on the road.’

  She stood up. Nigel heaved himself out of his chair and waddled over to join her.

  ‘You can take off your Oz suit for now,’ said DB, helping him unbutton the coat and remove the cushions. ‘I need you to be Nigel again.’

  ‘What are we going to do?’


  ‘First, we need to get Slushbutt here into her costume.’

  Working quickly, the two of them bundled the sleeping Priscilla Winterbottom into the costume from the Nutcracker ballet’s wardrobe. ‘There,’ said DB, adjusting the hood. ‘Suits her to a T.’ She looked around the room, frowning. ‘Now, the question is, how do we get her past the policeman?’

  ‘There’s a big laundry basket in the housekeeper’s cupboard outside,’ offered Nigel. ‘We could put her in that.’

  DB smiled. ‘You don’t miss a trick, do you, kid? I think Oz may have been right about you.’

  The small, pale boy fingered his MICE-6 badge proudly and offered a shy smile in return.

  ‘Think you can get that basket in here without the guard seeing?’

  ‘I’ll try.’ Nigel opened the door a sliver and peeked out into the hall. The policeman’s back was turned; he was watching the concert from the stage wings. As the two sopranos swung into ‘The Holly and the Ivy’, the tune that would close the first half of their Christmas programme, the younger boy tiptoed to the housekeeper’s cupboard, grabbed the laundry basket and wheeled it back to Lavinia Levinson’s dressing room.

  ‘Give me a hand, would you, Nigel?’ whispered DB, hoisting the sleeping form of Priscilla Winterbottom up off the sofa. The two of them managed to sling her gently – very gently – up and over the side of the basket, settling her on to a heap of soiled linen.

  ‘Peee-eeeewww,’ said DB softly, wrinkling her nose as she climbed in beside the British soprano’s daughter and burrowed beneath a towel.

  ‘Yeah,’ agreed Nigel. ‘Those ballet dancers really work up a sweat.’

  ‘Can you get us to the lift?’ DB asked him, her voice muffled by dirty laundry.

  In reply, Nigel Henshaw wheeled the basket quietly out of the dressing room. The guard’s back was still turned. The younger boy pushed the basket slowly and carefully down the hall. Just as he passed the guard, Priscilla Winterbottom let out a snore. The policeman wheeled round.

  ‘Stop!’ he called.

  Nigel halted, and the policeman eyed him suspiciously. ‘You’re the conductor’s son, right?’

  Nigel nodded.

  ‘I thought your dad told you to stay in his dressing room.’

  ‘Just until the interval,’ Nigel said meekly. ‘I’m taking these down to the laundry for housekeeping.’

  The detective glanced into the cart. ‘Whew,’ he said. ‘Stinky.’

  Nigel nodded in agreement. ‘The towels always need a good wash after the matinee. They weren’t seen to today – housekeeper’s off on holiday.’

  ‘Right then, lad. Nice of you to lend a hand. Off you go. Haven’t been bothering those two American kids, have you?’

  ‘Oh, no, sir,’ said Nigel. He started forward with the basket again. It let out another snore, and Nigel coughed loudly to cover it. The guard frowned, but the haunting strains of the ancient carol drew him back, and with one last glance over his shoulder at Nigel he allowed his attention to return to the stage.

  Nigel turned the corner of the hallway and broke into a run. He screeched to a halt in front of the lift, and a minute later they were in the basement.

  DB climbed out of the laundry cart and slid open the back of the enormous silver foil-wrapped present on the hydraulic lift. ‘Be careful not to wake her,’ she whispered as she and Nigel wheeled the laundry basket up on to the platform and into the box. Priscilla squirmed restlessly for a moment, then settled in with a sleepy sigh.

  ‘Can she breathe in there?’ asked Nigel anxiously as DB slid the back of the box into place again.

  DB nodded. ‘Plenty of air holes,’ she said. ‘Oz and I checked.’

  They crossed to the laundry room, and DB climbed into another basket. ‘Keep your fingers crossed, Agent Henshaw,’ she said as Nigel covered her with fresh towels. ‘Let’s just hope Oz’s plan works.’

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  DAY TWO – TUESDAY 2100 HOURS

  Oz stood motionless, frozen in place in the shadows behind the stiff wax figures of the Beatles. It was dark in the museum, and Oz could hear the night watchman huffing and puffing as he trotted through the deserted galleries.

  ‘Blasted Yank,’ the man grumbled. ‘What was he thinking, wandering off like that? Old geezer like him can’t have gone far – must be tottering about here somewhere.’

  Sweat broke out on Oz’s forehead as the night watchman drew closer. He couldn’t be discovered – he just couldn’t! Not when he was this close to his goal. He held his breath, squatting down beside the seated figure of the group’s drummer. John, Paul, George, Ringo – and Lardo, Oz thought ruefully, hoping the man wouldn’t notice an extra, somewhat tubby Beatle.

  He was in luck. The night watchman didn’t notice. His eyes slid right over the display as he passed by, and he disappeared down the hall still muttering to himself.

  Oz waited what he hoped was enough time for the man to be safely out of hearing range, then tiptoed out from behind the drum set. He switched on his penlight. All around, wax faces stared at him in the darkness. Through his blurred gaze, they appeared alarmingly lifelike, and it seemed to Oz as he lurched out from behind the Beatles that they followed his every movement with their sightless glass eyes.

  Oz’s pulse began to race. This place was giving him the creeps. Perspiration dripped down his nose. He reached up automatically to prod his glasses into place, then stopped. He wasn’t wearing his glasses.

  As he searched frantically for Winston Churchill, he passed presidents and princes; politicians and princesses; the famous and the infamous alike. Charlie Chaplin. Marilyn Monroe. Gandhi. Rock stars galore. Athletes and actors – even James Bond! Well, a movie star who played Agent 007. Oz skirted the Chamber of Horrors – at least he didn’t have to go down there looking for the prime minister – and two minutes later, after twelve more heart-stopping inspections of frozen figures, including the Queen, he found Winston Churchill.

  Oz regarded him for a moment. The great statesman was a barrel of a man, and his genial bulldog face was set in lines of courage and strength.

  ‘Sorry, sir,’ he whispered, reaching beneath Churchill’s overcoat. Oz clenched the penlight between his teeth and patted the prime minister down, his fingers searching the smooth, silken material of his waistcoat for something – anything – that might be the Summoner. Nothing.

  Oz frowned. Had Sir Edmund been misinformed? Maybe it was sewn inside a different waistcoat, one packed away in a trunk in an attic somewhere. Sweating heavily now, Oz worked his way over every inch of the waistcoat again. Still nothing.

  ‘It’s not here!’ he whispered aloud. Churchill didn’t reply, but it seemed to Oz that the wax figure regarded him with sympathy. What was he going to do? The mice were counting on him. London was counting on him. Thousands and thousands of lives could depend on the outcome of his part of the mission. He couldn’t give up yet. He wouldn’t. He started up at the top of the waistcoat for the third time.

  ‘Aha!’ he cried softly. There it was: a narrow, almost undetectable bump inside the very bottom of the front left hem. ‘Gotcha!’

  Oz clicked open Squeak’s mini-penknife and began to slice at the material. No careful picking of the hem; there wasn’t time. The fabric, worn with age, split open almost of its own accord. Something bright flashed in the beam of Oz’s tiny torch, and as it started to tumble towards the ground he caught it in his hand. He held it close to the light. The Summoner!

  Oz inspected it curiously. It looked like a dog whistle. A very unusual and beautiful dog whistle. The slender silver tube was etched with a pattern of what looked like Vs. Wings, thought Oz, a symbol of the Secret Air Service – the SAS, who would respond to the call. If they still remembered it, that was. Oz pocketed the Summoner, along with the penknife.

  ‘Thank you, sir,’ he said, bowing to the wax figure. ‘It was an honour meeting you.’

  Trying hard not to bump into anything – or anyone – Oz began to tiptoe his way tow
ards the exit. As he neared the door, he heard footsteps approaching again. The night watchman! Panicking, Oz ran for the door and pushed it open, setting off a high-pitched alarm.

  ‘Oi!’ cried the guard.

  No time for pretending to be an old man now. Oz started to run. He pounded blindly down the pavement, pushing past pedestrians right and left. ‘Excuse me! Pardon me! Coming through!’ he called.

  He ran until he could run no more, then stopped and leaned over, panting. He glanced behind him, fully expecting to see the museum’s night watchman.

  But he wasn’t there. No one was pursuing him. The man must have given up. Oz stood up and squinted at his surroundings, still wheezing. Where was he?

  After a few false starts and a lot of assistance from several passers-by, Oz stumbled his way to Baker Street station. He carefully followed the directions that Squeak had given him, and he soon arrived, breathless, at St Paul’s Cathedral.

  Oz checked his watch. He was running behind schedule. It was already past time for the interval at the concert. DB and Nigel must be frantic with worry! He trotted up the marble steps. Squeak had told him he’d have no problem getting in. The humans always held a Christmas Eve service at St Paul’s that was open to the public, she’d said. Sure enough, as he approached the huge carved door, Oz heard music. He pushed it open and stepped inside.

  Oz stopped in his tracks. He gazed around in wonder. The cathedral’s soaring stone interior was lit with the glow of a thousand candles, maybe more. Directly in front of him was a life-size manger scene. Most beautiful of all, however, was the music. It came from the far end of the great church, where a choir of boys lofted carols heavenwards towards the arched dome.

  Oz shook himself. Get a grip, Levinson – you’ve got a job to do. Skirting the manger, he found his way to the staircase leading to the Whispering Gallery. Beyond that, up at the top of the dome, lay his destination: the Stone Gallery.

  ‘Sorry, mate, can’t go up there. It’s closed for the evening,’ said a warden, barring the door.