Goldwhiskers

by Heather Vogel Frederick

  Her mother hauled herself upright. ‘Priscilla Winterbottom,’ she said in a furious stage whisper. ‘What do you think you’re doing?’

  Even the Queen was laughing by now. Prudence Winterbottom’s ferret face flamed in humiliation. So did her daughter’s.

  Oz’s father leaned over again. ‘You kids didn’t have anything to do with this, did you?’ he asked, his eyes twinkling.

  Oz shrugged and gave him a rueful smile. He leaned over to DB and Nigel. ‘Looks like rats come in two-legged varieties as well as four,’ he whispered.

  Priscilla scratched herself vigorously and sneezed. The audience roared again. Her mother grabbed her by one of her large, furry ears and dragged her offstage.

  Lavinia Levinson looked out over the audience. Her gaze landed on Oz. She winked. ‘May your days be merry and bright!’ she sang, her gorgeous soprano voice wafting up towards the ornate ceiling of the concert hall. ‘And may all your Christmases be white!’

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  DAY TWO – TUESDAY 2300 HOURS

  Back at 80 Strand, a pair of detectives from Scotland Yard was wrapping up the investigation at the office of D. G. Whiskers, Esquire.

  ‘Odd thing, don’t you think?’ said one, crouching down and peering inside the plastic pet carrier on the floor by the desk. The contents snarled at him angrily.

  ‘What?’

  ‘This big rat here, with its whiskers painted gold.’

  The other detective looked up from his paperwork. He shrugged. ‘Odd pet for an odd gent. Did you get a gawk at what our Mr Whiskers had stashed up in his attic?’ He pointed to the trapdoor in the ceiling and shook his head in disbelief. ‘All that little doll-sized furniture? Definitely a nutter.’

  ‘I wonder where he’s hiding?’ said the first detective.

  ‘Oh, we’ll find him,’ said his colleague. ‘We always do. Lucky for us one of his associates gave us a call and ratted him out. He must have had to make a run for it, leaving his pet behind like that. Not to mention the gems. He can’t have gone far.’

  He swivelled round in the desk chair and patted the laptop computer that sat on the filing cabinet behind him. ‘And there’s this too. The information in here will put D. G. Whiskers, Esquire, behind bars for life once we catch him. He can run, but he can’t hide from Scotland Yard. Not after nicking the Crown Jewels.’

  The other detective was quiet for a while. Then he said, ‘You don’t suppose…’

  ‘I don’t suppose what?’

  The first man shrugged. ‘I dunno,’ he mumbled. ‘Foolish, I guess. But it’s just such a coincidence. “D. G. Whiskers”. The little furniture. Everything! You don’t suppose this here rat with the golden whiskers had anything to do with it, do you?’

  The other detective stared at him, speechless. ‘Do you mean to tell me you think that rat there stole the Crown Jewels? Next you’ll be telling me you think the mice turned him in!’

  His colleague gave him a sheepish smile. ‘Yeah, I suppose you’re right. It’s impossible. I guess it’s just been a long day.’

  ‘Too long,’ said the other man, pushing back from the desk and packing up his briefcase. ‘Time to get you home.’ He picked up the pet carrier. Its contents growled softly. ‘We’ll drop this by the Yard on the way, shall we? A little Christmas present for the lab. I’m sure they’ll find a use for him – even if it’s only as a holiday treat for the ferrets.’

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  DAY THREE – WEDNESDAY 0645 HOURS

  Oz pulled the covers up under his chin and rolled over. He burrowed into his pillow and sighed a sigh of deep contentment. Suddenly, his eyes flew open. He sat bolt upright in bed. It was Christmas!

  Throwing the covers back, he pulled on his dressing gown and slippers and trotted out into the hotel suite’s fancy sitting room. No one else was awake yet but him. A beautiful little Christmas tree stood on the coffee table, twinkling with lights. Brightly wrapped presents were heaped around it, and he spent several happy minutes rifling through them, checking to see which ones were for him.

  Lavinia Levinson’s ruby necklace, earrings and bracelet had also been placed on the coffee table, along with a card that read ‘Happy Christmas from your fans at Scotland Yard’. Oz smiled. His mother would be thrilled.

  Scotland Yard had also returned his CD player and the grandpa shoes from the museum, he noted with relief. He’d been worried about how he was going to get Glory home again without them.

  ‘Ahem,’ said a voice behind him. A very small voice.

  Oz turned round. A dignified mouse stood at his feet. Beside him were Bubble, Squeak and Glory.

  ‘Merry Christmas, Oz!’ said Glory.

  The dignified mouse stepped forward. ‘Sir Edmund Hazelnut-Cadbury at your service,’ he said, extending his paw.

  Oz crouched down and reached out a fingertip. Boy and mouse exchanged a gentle shake. ‘Pleased to meet you,’ said Oz.

  ‘I never expected to find myself breaking the Mouse Code and speaking to a human,’ said Sir Edmund, gazing ruefully up at Oz. ‘But, then again, my great-grandfather Peregrine Inkwell did, so it’s not without precedent.’ He cleared his throat. ‘The mice of London owe you an enormous debt of gratitude, Ozymandias. We’d like to do something to thank you for your service to us.’

  ‘You already did,’ said Oz. ‘I thought I was going to spend the rest of my life in a dungeon for something I didn’t do.’

  ‘True, the Koh-i-Noor and the Sovereign’s Ring are safely back at the Tower of London where they belong,’ agreed Sir Edmund. ‘But nevertheless, without your efforts last night, Operation SMASH might not have been smashed to smithereens. The orphans might not have been rescued, and London might have been under attack even now. We at MICE-6 believe that heroism deserves to be recognized wherever possible.’ He held out his paw, and Squeak pulled something from her backpack and passed it to him. ‘And so, for exceptional bravery against the forces of evil, wherever found, this is for you, Ozymandias.’

  Sir Edmund held up a round object in both paws. Oz reached down and took it from him. It was a silver medallion about the size of a penny. The words NEVER GIVE IN were stamped on one side, beneath a likeness of Winston Churchill. Oz flipped it over. On the other side was a picture of Sir Peregrine Inkwell, along with a single candle encircled by the words LUX TENEBRAS EXSTINGUIT. The MICE-6 crest.

  ‘This was given to my great-grandfather by his hero and mine, Winston Churchill,’ said Sir Edmund. ‘They both would have been very proud of you, and I feel it’s only fitting that you have it.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Oz, stunned. He fingered the medallion. It reminded him of the coins at the Spy Museum gift shop back in Washington. The hollow ones that spies used to conceal messages. Automatically, he pressed down on the edge. The medallion flew open. Sir Edmund gasped.

  ‘I’m sorry!’ cried Oz, glancing at him in alarm. ‘Did I do something wrong?’

  ‘No, no, no,’ said Sir Edmund, flustered. ‘It’s just that I didn’t – I’ve never – bless my whiskers and tail! It never occurred to me that it might have a secret compartment.’

  ‘It’s just like the coin I brought you from Washington!’ said Glory.

  Sir Edmund nodded. He craned his neck, clearly eager to see if there was anything inside. Oz placed the medallion on the floor and the mice clustered around it in excitement.

  ‘Look!’ said Sir Edmund, carefully removing a scrap of paper from the secret compartment. Oz watched as he unfolded it. ‘After all these years,’ the head of MICE-6 said softly.

  At the top was a small pen-and-ink sketch of Churchill. His bulldog face bore a smile. On his shoulder perched Sir Peregrine Inkwell, saluting jauntily. The sketch was signed with the initials W. C.

  ‘Churchill drew that,’ said Sir Edmund. ‘He was an accomplished artist, you know.’

  Beneath the sketch was a brief poem. Sir Edmund cleared his throat and read it aloud:

  ‘Side by side we stood, we two,

&nb
sp; Through England’s darkest hours.

  We fought the foe with heads held high;

  Now victory is ours.

  In years to come, we hope these words

  Bring comfort to our friends:

  Stay straight on course and ne’er give in.

  You’ll triumph in the end.’

  The poem was signed with the initials P. I.

  Sir Edmund sighed a deep, contented sigh. ‘A true poet, my great-grandfather. I shall live by these words always.’ He folded up the scrap of paper reverently, then closed the medallion and passed it back to Oz. ‘Thank you, Ozymandias. For giving me a gift I could never have expected.’

  ‘You’re welcome,’ Oz replied. He tucked Sir Edmund’s present carefully into the pocket of his dressing gown. ‘Oh, and I have something for you.’ He pulled the Summoner out of the same pocket and passed it to the waiting mouse.

  ‘Ah, so this is the famous Summoner,’ said the head of MICE-6, turning the intricately etched silver whistle over in his paws. ‘We’ll put this in a safe place. Never know when it might be needed next.’ He cleared his throat. ‘I suppose we should discuss my new honorary agent.’

  ‘You mean Nigel?’ said Oz sheepishly.

  Sir Edmund nodded. ‘Julius believes that human children are an undervalued resource in our work. They travel under the radar, he says, and are excellent observers – particularly the quiet ones.’ He regarded Oz thoughtfully. ‘There’s truth in that, I suppose. And if Nigel Henshaw proves half the young man that you are, I expect he’ll make a fine addition to our team.’

  Oz breathed a sigh of relief. Sir Edmund wasn’t mad at him!

  The head of MICE-6 turned to Glory. ‘It appears Julius was right about you too, Agent Goldenleaf,’ he told her. ‘You more than deserve that Silver Skateboard of yours. Like Ozymandias, you were an essential part of our mission last night, and we owe you too, our everlasting gratitude. I look forward to working with you again in the future.’

  Glory’s hopes soared. Did that mean she might be given a glamorous overseas posting?

  ‘We must be off – Nibbleswick awaits,’ said Sir Edmund briskly.

  ‘We’ve been invited to have breakfast with the orphans,’ Glory explained to Oz.

  ‘Happy Christmas!’ chorused Bubble and Squeak.

  ‘Happy Christmas to you too!’ Oz replied, waving as his tiny friends filed out of the room.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  DAY THREE – WEDNESDAY 0730 HOURS

  A sharp wind blew through St James’s Park, whirling twigs and leaves along the frozen ground like merry snowflakes. The park was deserted this cold Christmas morning, its many paths and walkways empty of humans. All across London, families and friends were gathering in the warmth of their homes to enjoy the holiday.

  Deep in the twisted roots of an ancient oak tree, Glory, Bubble, Squeak and Sir Edmund Hazelnut-Cadbury huddled together on the doorstep of the Nibbleswick Home for Little Wanderers, shivering. Sir Edmund raised the brass knocker (a brightly polished cufflink in the shape of a lion’s head, foraged from the grounds of nearby Buckingham Palace) on the glossy red door and let it fall.

  The door flew open, revealing a stout, efficient-looking house mouse. A crisp white apron was tied round her ample middle. ‘You’ll be Sir Edmund, then,’ she said briskly. ‘We’ve been expecting you. Come along in out of the cold, all of you.’

  ‘Thank you, Matron,’ replied Sir Edmund.

  Glory looked around the entrance hall. It was spotless, and it was furnished with practical items: a sturdy bench for mouselings to perch on while removing their backpacks from school; an umbrella holder (a foraged china toothpick holder, again courtesy of Buckingham Palace); a long cabinet whose many pigeonholes displayed neat stacks of colourful mittens and hats for protecting small paws and ears from London’s bitter winter wind. On one wall hung twin portraits of the orphanage’s royal patrons, the Prince of Tails and the Duchess of Cornmeal. They looked very regal, thought Glory, in their coronets and red velvet capes.

  ‘Fine set of ears, has our Prince of Tails,’ said Sir Edmund admiringly. ‘Very distinguished.’

  Glory nodded in agreement.

  ‘Plays pigeon polo,’ added the elder mouse. ‘Quite well, in fact. And the duchess is a country mouse at heart, I hear – breeds crickets.’

  ‘The new arrivals are still sleeping,’ reported Matron. ‘It was all we could do to get a little cocoa in their tummies and wash them up last night, they were so wound up. Far too much excitement for such wee ones.’

  ‘Indeed,’ said Sir Edmund.

  ‘May we see them?’ asked Squeak.

  ‘If you wish,’ said Matron. She directed them to a staircase next to the drawing room, where a fire crackled invitingly in the grate. ‘Breakfast will be ready shortly.’

  Leaving Sir Edmund warming himself by the fire, the trio of spy mice tiptoed quietly upstairs to the orphanage’s sleeping quarters.

  Located in the tree’s upper branches, the dormitory was a long, narrow room painted a cheery yellow. Blue and white checked curtains covered the knothole windows, through which slanted the early morning sunshine. Along the walls were rows and rows of cosy nests lined with warm flannel, each containing a sleeping orphan.

  ‘There’s Farthing, in the corner!’ whispered Squeak. ‘Look, he’s crept under the covers with Twist, the little angel.’

  ‘And there’s Dodge – and Smudge from Scotland Yard!’ said Glory.

  The mice regarded the sleeping mouselings with satisfaction. ‘They’ll be much better off here than on the streets,’ said Bubble. ‘A fine place, Nibbleswick.’

  The three of them tiptoed back downstairs again.

  ‘Ah, there you are,’ said Sir Edmund. ‘And how are our young charges?’

  ‘Out like little lights,’ reported Squeak.

  ‘Visions of sugarplums dancing in their heads, no doubt,’ added Matron. She bustled across the carpet to a set of sliding doors and slid them open. In the room beyond stood a long table heaped with food. A Christmas cracker lay across every plate. ‘Buckingham Palace sent over their very best,’ said Matron approvingly. ‘They always do, on Christmas.’

  Glory’s stomach rumbled. She hadn’t had much to eat here in London so far. She sniffed the air expectantly. It smelled of wonderful things. Sugar and spice and evergreen. Just like Christmas.

  ‘I’ll light the tree, then, and we’ll call the orphans to breakfast,’ said Matron.

  She trundled back to the drawing room. A Christmas tree – the tip of a pine branch, actually – stood at the far end. It was covered with birthday candles. As Matron struck a match and lit each one, the bright strands of foraged ornaments and tinsel began to glitter and glow in the reflected light.

  ‘Pretty!’ cried a small voice behind them.

  The mice turned to see Farthing standing on the carpet. He was sucking on his tail. On one side of him stood Twist, and on the other, Dodge.

  ‘Happy Christmas, mouselings,’ said Sir Edmund.

  The trio regarded him shyly.

  ‘Santa Paws?’ asked Farthing, staring wide-eyed at the elder mouse’s silvered fur.

  Sir Edmund chuckled. ‘Sorry to disappoint you,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘Though I did bring a few presents.’ He gestured towards the tree and the little ones scampered off.

  Squeak leaned over to Glory. ‘Did I tell you my parents are planning to adopt Farthing?’ she whispered.

  ‘Hope you have plenty of mops back at the Savoy,’ said Glory with a smile, pointing to the puddle rippling out across the carpet beneath the excited mouseling.

  ‘Oi! The little dickens nicked my watch,’ said Bubble indignantly, patting his chest. Next to the tree, Twist swung the strap cheekily back and forth.

  ‘He’s got quick paws – you can say that much for him,’ said Sir Edmund, chuckling again. His laugh quickly turned to a harrumph as he realized his own watch and its silver chain were missing as well. He held out a stern paw. Twist sid
led over to him and placed the pilfered items in it.

  ‘I’ll be keeping a sharp eye on you,’ Sir Edmund warned him. He leaned closer and added with a twinkle, ‘If Matron here can steer your education in a more productive direction, we’ll be recruiting you for spy school in a few years. You too,’ he said to Dodge. ‘Shame to let natural talent go to waste.’

  Dodge smiled and ducked her head.

  ‘Oh, Glory, I almost forgot,’ said Squeak, pulling a small parcel out of her mitten-thumb backpack. ‘The doormouse at the Savoy passed this to me as we were leaving. It came by overnight courier with instructions to give it to you on Christmas morning.’

  Glory looked at the parcel curiously. For Morning Glory Goldenleaf, the bravest mouse I know, read the tag.

  ‘Oh, my,’ she said. It was from Bunsen.

  ‘Aren’t you going to open it, Miss Glory?’ asked Twist.

  Dodge and Farthing crowded closer as she untied the ribbon and tore off the festive paper. Underneath was a small blue leather box tooled in gold.

  ‘Pretty!’ piped Farthing.

  Glory opened the box. Inside, nestled in a scrap of matching blue velvet, was a tiny ring set with an exquisite diamond.

  ‘Looks like someone has her own crown jewels,’ said Squeak, nudging Bubble.

  Glory took the ring out of the box. Beneath it was a note in Bunsen’s spiky scrawl. Dear Glory, I love you with all my heart, it said. Will you marry me?

  ‘Oh, my,’ said Glory again, and turned a most Bunsen-like shade of pink.

  Bubble and Squeak and the orphans looked at her expectantly. So did Sir Edmund and Matron. Glory slipped the ring over her paw. It fitted perfectly.

  ‘What are you going to tell him, Miss Glory? What’s your answer?’ Twist was bouncing up and down with excitement.

  Glory smiled at the mouseling. Her eyes shone as bright as the diamond that adorned her paw. ‘It’s the middle of the night back in America,’ she said firmly. ‘Bunsen will have to wait for his answer.’