by B G Denvil
“A silver spoon, too large for a proper spoon,” Rosie admitted, without the slightest intention of showing these items, “and a sort of pretend silver toadstool. Just a little thing with silver dots etched on it. But they aren’t mine, so I can’t give them to you.”
Lucky hopped back up with three long curly crusts in her beak. Wolfy nodded to Rosie. “We have no wish to take the silver from you,” he said. “But we think we should warn you. These, and a few others, of Whistle’s special and precious invented items should not be used unknowingly. They could be – ”
“Dangerous,” finished Cuddles. “Especially that nuisance of a toadstool. Put it in a box and leave it somewhere hidden.”
“Why?” Frowning, Rosie leaned back on the pillows. The silver objects were strange enough to have been used for something, and Whistle was powerful enough to have invented objects for a special purpose. Those items had certainly not been purely decoration, so the crow’s words did not surprise her. Yet when she had briefly examined them, nothing interesting had occurred. She said, “But Whistle wasn’t a dark wizard. He was kind and helpful. I even remember him coming to my power test when I was ten.”
“Well, he would have, wouldn’t he?” demanded Wolfy.
Cuddles hopped closer, and her voice was unusually soft. “We are trying to help, you know,” she said with a faint clack of her beak. “We knew Whistle well, and we want to help. Please just remember our words.”
This startled Rosie even more, and she sensed something almost frightening at the back of the unusual warning. So she sat up and faced all three crows. “Thank you for coming,” she said, smiling wide. She decided she couldn’t hug them, in spite of Cuddles’ name, but she added, “I suppose you don’t have any idea who did this horrible thing to Whistle?”
But they shook their heads, preparing to fly off with her stale crusts. But Wolfy waited on the window sill, and turned, whispering, “Whistle had a particular interest in you, Mistress Rosie, and so do we. If anything bad happens, you just let us know. And in the meantime, if you could find Whistle’s silver cup, larger than your average ale cup, of course, it might solve some mysteries.”
Rosie was left perturbed, filled with curiosity and just a little scared. She didn’t understand how anyone, especially anyone as clever as Whistle, could possibly have had any special interest in her, and with the crows, it seemed plain ridiculous. Her mind whizzed. Knowing herself to be an ordinary fifty, none of this extra attention made any sense at all.
Once up and dressed, Rosie hurried downstairs for her usual jobs, making the beds, three heavy buckets of water and setting the table for breakfast. On the verge of arriving late, her mother glared in disapproval, and Rosie knew she’d have to avoid her for the rest of the day, or she’d end up being ordered to scrub floors, wash windows and dust every corner. Dusting was an especially hard job at The Rookery as it was important not to injure any of the resident spiders, and try not to ruin all their webs.
For today, Rosie had very different ideas, and once she’d finished her breakfast she ran straight back to her bedchamber and retrieved the silver toadstool and large spoon from their hiding places. She was already wearing the ruby hatpin, and hoped the entire and interesting collection would give answers.
A little wooden table sat in the corner of her bedchamber, and she sat next to this, laying out the two silver objects in front of her, and then waking hatpin Oswald with a gentle rub.
“Please,” said Rosie aloud, “I’m feeling a little titchy bit upset. Odd things keep happening to me. I thought I was being good wanting to find who killed Whistle. Mostly because it was terrible and wicked, but also because I liked Whistle. I didn’t expect easy answers, but I would greatly appreciate it if any of you could explain what’s going on.”
“Feeling sorry for yourself, girl?” demanded the toadstool, and its spots glimmered gold.
“Perhaps I am.” Rosie was cross. “But it’s Whistle I’m trying to help. Well, it’s a bit late for that, but you know what I mean.”
“I’ve no idea what you mean,” said the toadstool. “I don’t even know who you are. I only ever speak to Whistle himself, and I prefer it when he’s in a good mood.”
It was the spoon which interrupted, speaking more genially. “Now, now,” it said, flashing blue across its large silver scoop. “I know you miss our master, and so do I. But this is the girl. Remember?”
“Rosie?” boomed the toadstool.
“Keep your voices down,” objected Oswald from Rosie’s collar. “Say what you can, and say it softly.”
It seemed the toadstool was now rather ashamed of itself. “Rosie,” it muttered. “Mistress Rosie herself. Well now, I apologise. But it isn’t my fault, you know. I can’t see. No eyes, all my spots are ears.”
“I have both,” said the spoon with a superior air. “My scoop is my eye, and I have ears up the handle. And, I may say, I am a generous and giving spoon. I can give when directed. I bestow, and that is my name, Mistress Rosie. I am Bestower Brim.”
“How do you do,” said Rosie, wide-eyed.
“I’m just as important,” insisted the toadstool. “I take, but only where there’s too much. What I take, I give to Bestower, and then he can give it to someone else. And I am Mush Mutter, although I dislike being thought of as a mushroom. How do you do, Mistress Rosie.”
“How do you do.” She couldn’t imagine what to ask. Taking and giving were vague talents and made very little sense. “But what did Whistle ask you to give or take away?”
“This and that.”
“Hard to explain,” added Mush.
So Rosie asked Oswald. “I wonder if you can tell me more? What am I supposed to do now? And who on earth killed poor Whistle?”
This had not been a wise question, since the hat pin, the spoon and the toadstool all burst into tears. Rosie sighed and packed the silver objects safely away, deciding to search for the silver cup, as advised by the crows. There were only two places she could think of, and one was the kitchen where she didn’t want to go. Instead she hurried up all the stairs to Whistle’s two large rooms. With Peg living close by, Rosie was quiet. She decided she had to avoid both Peg and her mother. For once, she felt the freedom to do exactly as she wished, and stop everyone going on about her, instead of concentrating on Whistle.
Although Alice had decided not to advertise these rooms yet for occupation, they had been sufficiently tidied to making finding a single thing most unlikely. Both large, the rooms would bring in excellent rent for her parents, and Alice intended on taking two more lodgers, with one bedchamber each.
“Twice the money. And just think, two more friends,” Alice had said, though she had not really made friends with a single occupant so far.
So Rosie scurried inside and began a flurried search on her knees. There was nothing under the bed, nothing under any stool or chair, nothing under the two tables and not a single item left on any shelf. Rosie looked on the window sill, on the candle sconces, lifted the squashy cushions on the chair and even lifted up the three Turkey rugs. She found nothing. Her knees ached from crawling, and her back ached from bending.
Finally, Rosie stood, yawned and prepared to leave, when a very high-pitched voice squeaked out, “What about me?” Rigid, Rosie looked around. “Over here,” squeaked the voice. “I’ve been hiding for ages. It’s most uncomfortable.”
Tracing the call, Rosie rushed to the bed and rummaged beneath the eiderdown at one side, where everything was tucked tight. There she was able to pull out a somewhat crumpled piece of parchment. “Gosh,” she said, “you actually hid? How clever. Are you important?”
“Important? I’m jolly well essential,” said the parchment, insulted. “Now, roll me up carefully and put me in your apron pocket.”
“I don’t suppose,” asked Rosie hopefully, “you know where the silver cup is? I was told that’s terribly important too.”
“Alice Scaramouch,” said the parchment. “I’d guess it has to be her. Probabl
y has taken it and uses it for her evening wine. It won’t poison her, but you have to get it back.”
“That won’t be easy,” Rosie mumbled, did as asked with the parchment and hurried from the room. On her way back down the stairs, Oswald stuck his pin into her chin, and Rosie almost tripped. “What? Have I left something behind?”
“Loads,” scolded Oswald. “A quill pen and invisible ink under the pillows. A pair of shoes that take you flying when you’re too tired to do it for yourself. They’re on a top shelf at the back, so high you can’t see them. And…”
But just as Rosie was about to object and ask Oswald why he hadn’t told her all this when she was inside the two rooms, she bumped into Peg. It seemed that Peg was about to object as well.
“I’ve been looking for you all morning,” said Peg. “I spoke to Kate again and offered more bribes. Coin, a warm cloak – that sort of thing. She’s promised to tell me what she can remember finding in Whistle’s rooms, whatever she kept and whatever she knows your mother kept.”
“We asked her all that before,” said Rosie.
“A little extra bribery goes a long way,” said Peg. “And she’s a poor little thing. Only a twelve. Can barely click her fingers.” She thought for a moment. “Mind you, that’s probably because she uses them all the time for picking her nose.”
“Oh dear, alright,” Rosie sighed. “I suppose I ought to tell you, I went back to search Whistle’s room one last time, and I found a piece of paper who insists she’s important.”
“Show me,” said Peg at once. As Rosie pulled the parchment from her apron, Peg snatched it and began to read. Her face lit with purple anticipation, and finally she beamed. Having rolled it once more, she then handed it back to Rosie. “Keep this very, very safe,’ she said. “I can explain when we find a few more things. In the meantime, don’t show a soul. Keep it hidden.”
“I don’t have so many special places for keeping stuff hidden,” Rosie complained. “My room is only a single. Wouldn’t you like to hide these things instead of me?”
Peg waved both hands at her. “No, no, my dear. It’s you they all want to stay with. Shoved in my room, they’d start running around and making nuisances of themselves.”
“I spend half my life absolutely puzzled,” Rosie objected. “Number one, puzzled, confused, muddled and not understanding. Number two, a big quarter I spend scared.”
“And the last quarter?”
“Number three, working my knees raw and my back broken.” Rosie sat where she was at the top of the old staircase. “You’re understanding more than I am. Won’t you start explaining at least some of it?”
Peg hovered mid-air, just above the lower steps. “I understand bits here and bits there, and being a most powerful witch, I know the river is starting to flow. But I’m afraid I could never explain it to you, Rosie dear.”
“Because at just fifty, I’m too stupid to understand?”
“As it happens,” smiled Peg, “I don’t think you are a fifty at all, my dearest. But that’s something else I can’t explain.”
“Oh, pooh,” said Rosie. “I can’t fly. I can’t polish things with a click of my fingers. I can’t understand magic runes, like those on this parchment, and I can’t do any special spells. No disguises, no curses, no blessings and not even good dreams on call.”
“You flew right up into the clouds, and stayed there,” Peg pointed out. “That day on the beach proved what you’re capable of. And how do you wash and get dressed every morning?”
“Well, that’s simple. Everyone can do that,” Rosie said. “I can click my fingers for some little things. But nothing big.”
“We shall see,” Peg told her.
It was as Rosie clattered downstairs, with Peg flying above, that she thought of something and asked, “Why were you out with Mandrake yesterday? I’ve never liked Mandrake. But you seemed happy with him.”
“Yes,” Peg sighed. “You like Montague, because he’s good looking and seems a whole lot younger than he really is. But Montague can’t even remember your name and hardly knows you exist. Mandrake, on the other hand, likes me.”
Immediately disinterested, Rosie changed the subject. “I thought about the bats too,” she said. “They fly at night, and Whistle was murdered at night. They just could have seen someone. But I doubt I’d understand them, and probably they wouldn’t want to talk to me. But they like you too, you said, and you get on well together. So have you asked the bats if they saw anything that night?”
“A highly sensible idea,” Peg agreed. “We shall go together tonight after supper. But had they seen anything horrible, I’m sure they’d have told me already.” She shrugged. “You never know. We’ll take some wine and biscuits, and go to the attic tonight for a bat chat.”
Chapter Eleven
Understanding each other after all, the bats seemed very pleased to see Rosie. Rosie was distinctly surprised and equally delighted. One small bundle of soft fur upended itself so its head actually cuddled into Rosie’s hair.
“You smell so nice,” it told her. “Sort of familiar. Welcome to our belfry.”
“But no bell,” muttered Rosie, not entirely sure she wanted a bat, however friendly, feeling cheerfully at home in her hair.
Peg sat just as cheerfully on the piles of guano, looking perfectly content. It was hard to see if the bats were smiling, but a huge number flapped down onto beams closer to their visitors.
“Whistle’s window?” answered one. “No. I never fly close in case I disturb him. Such a nice and clever man.”
“Didn’t you know he was dead?” Rosie was surprised.
“I did,” several called from the beams.
And one said, “I knew, poor gennleman. And I seen summit too.”
Eagerly leaning forwards, Rosie asked, “What? Can you describe what you saw?”
“He were lyin’ proper dead,” answered the bat. “All smashed and squashed, he were, and I seen the door shuttin’ an’ all.”
“So who left the room?” Now Peg was equally excited.
“Dunno,” said the bat. “I only seen a foot goin’ out in a boot, it were. A boring brown boot.”
Immediately Rosie and Peg started to think who wore brown boots. “One, sometimes me,” started Rosie. “Number two, Mandrake. He did last night.”
“And me, and everyone,” Peg objected, and looked up again at the bat. “Large? Small? Insignificant? Dirty? Polished? Buckle or laces or ribbons?”
“Oh, botheration,” said the bat, and paused to think. “Reckon they was big. Reckon they was an itchy bit grubby. No polish. Laces, it were. Just a dirty old brown cord tyin’ up a brown boot.”
“Now that,” grinned Peg, “is extremely useful.”
As gently as possible, Rosie dislodged the bat’s little head from her hair. “I’m sure I shall see you again,” she said. “I’m Rosie.”
“Oooo, I knows,” whispered the bat into her ear. “And you smells proper sweet. I’s Milly, and I reckons I shall see you again.”
For the entire remainder of the evening, without realising there were large patches of guano stuck to the backs of their gowns, Rosie and Peg tottered around The Rookery staring at everyone’s feet.
This did not go unnoticed.
It was eventually Montague who said loudly, “Mistress Tipple, you seem remarkably interested in my shoes. Yes, they are pointed, and emerald green leather with an extremely attractive copper buckle. Is this of the slightest importance to you?”
Looking up, Peg said, “Do you have any brown boots, perhaps?”
“You wish to borrow my boots, madam?” He pointed to her feet. “Yes, I have very smart brown boots tied in a handsome red ribbon. But I must point out that your feet are considerably smaller than mine. You would fall top over tail.”
She shook her head. “Just wondering. Taste and fashion, you know.”
Montague gazed back. “Since I disbelieve you, madam,” he said with considerable hauteur, “I suggest we all convene in the
meeting hall tomorrow morning immediately after breakfast. Get that old turnip Alice too, and her silly little daughter. But I doubt the maid or the gardener would be of any use. And you can proceed to carry out your own interrogation, using fire tongs and red-hot pokers, if you wish, to discover our footwear and work out who you think killed Master Hobb.”
Rosie blushed, and Peg smiled. “Excellent. I do believe the time has come. It’s precisely what I planned myself. So ring the kitchen bell, and tell everyone the moment of disclosure will come in the morning.”
Now late April, the sunshine was strong and enjoyed peeping into every window each morning. Breakfast had been served and eaten, and they had gathered in the main hall.
It was quite a squash. Even without Rosie’s father, Alfred, the maid, Kate, and the gardener, there were thirteen witches and ten wizards. Montague suggested they sit in order of merit, according to their magical power, but others shouted him down.
“Just because you think you’re special at seventy-one.”
“Whereas I’M a seventy-eight,” said Mandrake with a large smile.
“Sit wherever you wish,” Peg shouted at them. “And let’s get on with this before midday dinner.”
“If I am kept here,” Alice sniffed, “dinner will be late.”
“Then we could all go down to the Juggler and Goat,” beamed Rosie, but no one took any notice.
Montague and Mandrake pulled up their stools but sat on opposite sides of the room. Alice did not sit next to her daughter and glared at Peg. Emmeline, a stout seventy-two, sat next to Rosie and gazed placidly while sucking her chocolate, which wouldn’t be discovered until many, many years later, and Emmeline’s was nicer anyway. Next to her sat Butterfield Short, a full seventy-nine. Leaving a polite space between, Pixie West sat, almost equal at seventy-six. Taking the vacancy between them, Bertie Cackle, an eighty-two in grubby brown boots, sat himself down and stretched out his legs. Apart from Peg, he was now the most powerful wizard there.
Gradually, each wizard and each witch took their places, staring with interest at each other. It was extremely rare that all The Rookery inhabitants agreed to meet together.
