Atticus Claw On the Misty Moor

by Jennifer Gray

  Drat! Atticus could see it now. Everyone else apart from him was so good at riddles he was beginning to feel quite annoyed.

  ‘She dressed up in old Hilary Blairrrrrr Deuteronomy’s frocks and fuuurrrrrs,’ Mr Tucker observed.

  ‘That’s it!’ Callie exclaimed suddenly. ‘The dressing-up box! Lord Stewart gave Lady Jemima his old school trunk to use as a dressing-up box!’

  ‘The trunk had a secret drawer!’ Michael remembered. His face split into a broad grin. ‘Callie’s right, Mrs Tucker. The treasure map must be in there!’

  Mrs Tucker whistled. She handed the packet of marshmallows to the children and Mr Tucker to finish. ‘Holy hake! You’ve cracked it, you three!’

  Atticus couldn’t help feeling a tiny bit jealous. He was rubbish at riddles. He’d never get that smokie now.

  Mrs Tucker was still speaking. ‘It makes perfect sense. Lord Stewart kept the trunk at the castle with the map hidden inside it and gave the key to the secret drawer to Great-Uncle Archie …’

  ‘And Lady Jemima never suspected a thing!’ Debs snorted.

  Mrs Tucker looked expectantly at Don. ‘So where’s the key?’

  ‘That’s the problem,’ Don said. ‘I’ve never seen a key in Great-Uncle Archie’s room.’ He turned to Debs. ‘Have you, Debs?’

  Debs shook her head. ‘Never.’

  ‘Could he have hidden it?’ asked Mrs Tucker.

  ‘I don’t think so,’ said Don. ‘Debs and I check every inch of that room for cats six times a day. We’d have seen it if it was there.’

  ‘What’s the last line of the riddle again, Mrs Tucker?’ asked Callie. ‘Maybe that will give us a clue.’

  Atticus listened sourly. There was barely any point in him trying to work it out when everyone else was so good at it.

  ‘For that’s when the Cat Sith holds the key.’

  There was a long silence.

  ‘I don’t get it,’ said Michael.

  ‘Me neither,’ Callie said, sounding disappointed. ‘It’s supposed to be Great-Uncle Archie who holds the key, not the Cat Sith.’

  What did the Cat Sith have to do with it? Atticus didn’t get it either. But that was hardly surprising, he thought crossly, given how useless he was at solving riddles compared to everyone else.

  ‘Atticus.’ Mimi’s paw brushed his fur. ‘Remember in the diary it said the secret drawer had an interesting mechanism to open it? What does that actually mean? Do you know?’

  Atticus thought back to his cat-burgling days. ‘Not all locks have metal keys,’ he told Mimi. ‘Some are much trickier to break. Take a safe, for instance: that might have a combination of numbers or a dial.’

  ‘What other types of key are there?’ Mimi persisted.

  ‘Computer codes, finger-print detectors, magnetic strips, symbols …’

  ‘Symbols?’ Mimi echoed.

  ‘You know, like a jigsaw puzzle, where one piece fits inside another and it releases the lock …’ Atticus stopped. That was it! A symbol. Now he understood where the Cat Sith fitted into the riddle. And he knew exactly where to find the key. His green eyes glowed. It turned out he was brilliant at riddles after all! Just like everyone else. He planted a lick on Mimi’s cheek. ‘Thanks, Mimi!’

  ‘What for?’ asked Mimi.

  ‘I know where the key is. Stay here. I’ll go and get it.’

  Atticus raced out of the kitchen and up the stairs to Great-Uncle Archie’s bedroom. The door was ajar. Two voices drifted through the gap.

  ‘Ah told you at the station it was comin’,’ Great-Uncle Archie said. ‘And ya wouldn’t listen.’

  ‘I wish I had!’ came Inspector Cheddar’s anguished reply. ‘It was horrible, a real brute of a thing. Do you think I’ll be safe under the electric blanket?’

  ‘Ah doubt it,’ said Great-Uncle Archie gloomily. ‘No Dumpling is ever safe from the Cat Sith. It creeps up on you like a pair of tight underpants. Let’s watch Highlanders, it’s ma favourite soap opera. It’ll take your mind off things.’

  Atticus heard a click, then some dreary music, then lots of people shouting at one another.

  He crept through the door.

  Great-Uncle Archie sat in a tartan armchair by the window with a tartan blanket over his knees. He was wearing tartan pyjamas, tartan slippers, tartan socks, a tartan cardigan and, most probably, tartan underpants (although luckily you couldn’t see those). Inspector Cheddar lay on the bed. Atticus couldn’t actually tell what the Inspector was wearing because he was sandwiched between the mattress and a stiff pink blanket with wires coming out of it attached to a plug. Only Inspector Cheddar’s face was visible. It gleamed ghost-like in the dark room, illuminated by the light from the TV. Even though it was mid-morning, the windows were closed and the heavy curtains pulled.

  The room was also unbearably hot. Great-Uncle Archie had the radiator turned up to MAX and the electric blanket to MEGA-MAX. Sweat ran down Inspector Cheddar’s face. Atticus couldn’t help feeling a bit sorry for him. But then again, thought Atticus, it was perfectly obvious to anyone who had an ounce of sense that the animal on the moor wasn’t the Cat Sith, but Lady Jemima’s pet panther.

  ‘Stop mumbling!’ Great-Uncle Archie shook his fist at the TV and turned the volume up to SUPER-MEGA-MAX. The shouting became deafening. Great-Uncle Archie and Inspector Cheddar were glued to the screen.

  Now was his chance. Atticus’s eyes swept the room. He found what he was looking for almost immediately: Stewart Dumpling’s walking stick. It stood upright against Great-Uncle Archie’s commode in the corner beside the dressing table. Atticus had to admire the two men’s deception. Great-Uncle Archie didn’t need to hide the key because no one (except now Atticus, of course) knew that was what the walking stick actually was.

  Atticus edged along the skirting board, hoping that the faded flock wallpaper would camouflage him. He reached the walking stick and prodded at it tentatively with a paw, wondering how he was going to get it out of the room without Inspector Cheddar seeing him. The walking stick was made of solid oak. That, combined with the silver knob, made it far too heavy for Atticus to carry.

  He would have to roll it.

  CRASH! BANG! ‘*@$@$%*! *@©†Ωπ €∫ ‰ž $%@&@*! $%&*@†Ωπ$%&*! @$*@©†Ωπ $*@©†Ωπ$%&*@$%! &*@$%&*@$%&*@$ %&*@$%&! *@$%&* €∫ ‰ž†Ωπ%& *@$%&* @$%&*@$% &*@$%&*@$€∫ †Ωπ‰ž* @$% &*@$%& *@ €∫ ‰ ž@$%&*@$%†Ωπ!’

  The argument on the TV intensified.

  Atticus seized his opportunity. He pulled the walking stick away from the commode with a quick tug of his front paws. It dropped on to the carpet with a thud. Luckily the carpet was thick – the noise was lost against the shouts of the quarrelling Highlanders. As quickly as he could, Atticus rolled the walking stick out of the room and along the corridor.

  TWING! CLATTER-CLATTER-CLATTER! TWING! CLATTER-CLATTER-CLATTER! TWING!

  The walking stick bounced down the stairs, knocking against the banisters. With a final heave Atticus pushed it through the kitchen door.

  Seven pairs of human eyes regarded him blankly.

  ‘What are you doing with that, Atticus?’ Mrs Tucker inquired.

  Atticus planted his front paws on the tiled floor and manoeuvred the walking stick with his strong hind legs until the silver knob was turned in the direction of the humans. The shape of the Cat Sith stood out bold and clear, as did Stewart Dumpling’s initials.

  Atticus waited patiently for the penny to drop.

  Mimi was the first to get it. ‘You are clever, Atticus,’ she said. ‘I’d never have guessed that part of the riddle.’

  ‘That’s because you weren’t a cat burglar.’ Atticus felt proud of himself. If only the humans would hurry up and work it out! He gave the walking stick another nudge.

  ‘Maybe he wants to go for a walk?’ suggested Debs.

  Atticus took a deep breath. He wasn’t a dog, for goodness’ sake!

  ‘You’ll have to show them,’ Mimi said.

  ‘Okay.’ Atticus flicked out a
claw and pretended to pick a lock.

  ‘It’s like charrrrrraaaaarrrrrrrrdes.’ Mr Tucker clapped his hands in delight. Atticus cradled the silver knob in his paws and twisted it gently so that the symbol of the Cat Sith turned one way and the other. Then he put his paw to his ear as if he were listening for a click. Then he opened an imaginary drawer. Surely they’d get it now!

  ‘I know!’ A smile lit Callie’s face.

  ‘Know what?’ asked Don.

  ‘You tell them,’ Callie said to her brother. Michael was grinning too.

  ‘The walking stick,’ said Michael. ‘That’s it, isn’t it, Atticus?’

  Atticus meowed.

  ‘That’s what?’ asked Debs.

  ‘The key!’ The children chorused.

  ‘So that’s why Great-Uncle Archie wouldn’t part with it all these years!’ Don whistled. ‘I should have guessed.’

  ‘Good work, Atticus.’ Mrs Tucker smiled. ‘I think you deserve a smokie for that.’ She went to the fridge.

  ‘I’ll share it with you,’ Atticus promised Mimi, ‘because you helped.’

  Mrs Tucker placed a saucer of fish on the floor. Atticus gulped down his treat. Mimi had a bit too. And Bones.

  ‘Now let’s go and get that treasure map,’ said Mrs Tucker, pulling on her biker boots and tying a Hells Angels scarf over her curlers. ‘There’s no time to lose.’

  ‘I’ll write Dad a note,’ Callie said, ‘in case he wonders where we are.’

  ‘All right,’ Mrs Tucker said, ‘but don’t tell him what we’re doing.’

  ‘I won’t.’ Callie scribbled something quickly and pinned it to the pegboard.

  ‘What are we going to say to Lady Jemima?’ asked Michael, as the kids grabbed their coats and wellies.

  Mrs Tucker gave him a wink. ‘How about we ask if you and Callie can borrow some costumes for the Hogmanay party from the dressing-up trunk?’

  On Biggnaherry moor, Thug and Slasher emerged from their morning paddle in the freezing-cold loch. Drops of water dripped from their bedraggled feathers on to the stony beach.

  The castle loomed behind them on the hill. It was just about visible through the thick fog.

  ‘What a horrible place to live.’ Thug shivered.

  ‘It’s an ’orrible place for an ’orrible person,’ said Slasher, referring to Lady Jemima.

  ‘Oh, her!’ said Thug in disgust. ‘I can’t believe she’s planning to feed us to a panther when we’ve done the job.’

  ‘I can!’ said Slasher. ‘She’s a human. All humans are ’orrible. Like what Jimmy said. You can’t trust ’em.’

  ‘When do we start spreading the word?’ Thug asked. He nodded meaningfully at the loch. The other members of the Crow Brigade were still splashing about energetically doing birdy-fly.

  ‘Not yet,’ Slasher said. ‘We have to wait until Jimmy gives the order. We need to find the treasure first, remember?’

  ‘Oh yeah,’ Thug said. The thought of treasure cheered him a little. ‘Hey, Slash, whatchergonna do with your share when you get back to Littleton-on-Sea?’

  ‘I’m gonna get myself a new nest to put it in,’ said Slasher, ‘then I’m gonna hire the Crow Brigade to kill Atticus Claw.’

  ‘You mean you’re leaving our nest under the pier?’ gasped Thug.

  ‘Nah, I’m not leaving it. I want to put the gold next door so I can go and look at it whenever I want. What about you?’

  ‘I’m gonna get a tail extension,’ said Thug.

  He and Slasher fell to chattering about the future.

  ‘Chacka-chacka-chacka-chacka-chacka!’

  ‘Chacka-chacka-chacka-chacka-chacka!’

  Unfortunately the noise attracted the attention of the Sergeant Major. ‘Time for your rub-down with the prickly sock!’ he shouted.

  ‘Darn it!’ said Thug.

  The prickly socks (so named because they were full of thistles) were lined up on the beach, one for each member of the Crow Brigade. The drill involved the recruits rubbing their feathers against the rough, prickly wool until they were completely dry.

  ‘What’s the point of it, anyway?’ grumbled Thug, picking the least prickly sock he could find. ‘I mean, why can’t we just use a towel?’

  ‘It’s good for your circul-hation,’ said Slasher.

  ‘But I’ve got sensitive skin,’ said Thug, easing his tail gently against the toe of the sock.

  ‘Too bad!’ The Sergeant Major gave him a shove.

  ‘OUCH!’ Thug sat back on the sock. A large thistle head shot through a hole in the toe and spiked him painfully in the backside.

  ‘Fall in!’ shouted the Sergeant Major.

  The other members of the Crow Brigade finished their rub-down and sprang into a neat line.

  ‘Make room for us!’ Thug and Slasher pushed their way in.

  ‘Atten-shun!’

  The birds stood tall and erect.

  ‘That includes you two!’ yelled the Sergeant Major. ‘Stop slouching!’

  ‘I’m not!’ Thug insisted. ‘I’m just shorter than everyone else.’

  ‘And I’m lopsided because of my Arthur-itis,’ Slasher said, leaning on Thug.

  ‘Okay, you two, have it your way.’ The Sergeant Major’s face wore an unpleasant smirk.

  ‘Why’s he being so nice all of a sudden?’ Slasher asked a neighbouring jay.

  ‘Haven’t you heard?’ said the jay. ‘The Wing Commander’s on his way. If you don’t fall into line he’ll mince you and save the Sergeant Major a job. I’d watch it if I were you.’ He nodded towards the castle. ‘Here he comes now with the other officers.’

  A perfect V-shaped formation of birds flew low over the moor. It zoomed over the heads of the recruits in a brilliant display of aerobatics.

  ‘There’s Jimmy!’ cried Thug in excitement.

  Jimmy Magpie flew just behind and to the right of the Wing Commander. Only centimetres separated him from the bird flying on the Wing Commander’s left flank.

  ‘That’s awesome!’ Slasher said.

  ‘Prepare to land!’ screeched the Wing Commander.

  One by one the pairs of birds veered off in opposite directions, landing with perfect precision at either end of the line of recruits. Jimmy and his flying partner were the last pair to land. They put down together at exactly the same time.

  ‘Hey, Boss!’ Thug waved. ‘Over here!’

  Jimmy marched up to Thug and punched him smartly in the crop. ‘Shut up, you idiot,’ he hissed. ‘You’re not supposed to speak to me. Don’t say anything else if you want to get out of here alive.’ He stepped back into place.

  ‘Uuuuuuuuuuu.’ Thug inhaled a great ragged breath. He couldn’t have said anything anyway, even if he had wanted to, which was probably just as well because a terrible screech heralded the arrival of the bird they had all been waiting for – the Wing Commander.

  The recruits looked up.

  A huge bird with a blue-grey head and a cruel, hooked blue-and-yellow beak plummeted from the sky. At the very last minute it pulled itself up in front of the Crow Brigade and beat its white spotted wings in the faces of the recruits. The line of birds shuffled backwards in fear.

  ‘Stand your ground!’ the bird ordered. ‘Or I’ll peck your eyes out.’

  The recruits froze, apart from Thug and Slasher whose knees knocked together like two pairs of maracas.

  The bird stalked slowly up and down the line, its beady eyes unblinking. Finally it stopped.

  ‘I’m Wing Commander Peregrine Falcon,’ it said. ‘I’m the commanding officer of this brigade.’ Peregrine rotated his head full circle one way, then the other, keeping all the recruits within sight.

  ‘Congratulations,’ he continued. ‘Most of you have passed the training course with flying colours. Thanks to the Sergeant Major, you have been transformed from a bunch of cut-throat ruffians into a mean, lean fighting machine.’ Peregrine’s eyes fell on Thug and Slasher. ‘Two of you, however, are useless. It’s only thanks to Squadron Leader Magpie that
you are still alive. He believes you might come in useful for carrying supplies.’ Peregrine regarded Thug and Slasher with contempt. ‘Personally I think you’re about as much use as a dose of bird flu, so watch your step or I’ll crush you with my toes. Got it?’

  ‘Got it,’ Thug and Slasher gulped.

  ‘The rest of you listen up.’ Peregrine resumed his pacing. ‘You have been trained for a particular mission, which I shall refer to as Plan B. If you succeed, you’ll get paid with something shiny. If you fail, you’ll die. If you tell any-birdy else, I’ll tear you into shreds and feed you to the eagles. Understood?’

  ‘Yes, sir! Understood, sir!’ the Corvids chorused.

  ‘Very well,’ said the falcon. ‘Here it is, then – Plan B. Your mission is to capture a wildcat and take it to the castle.’

  There was a collective gasp, except from Thug. Peregrine’s eyes swept the line. ‘Pretend to be shocked,’ Slasher hissed. ‘We’re not supposed to know the plan, remember?’

  ‘Oh yeah!’ Thug pressed his wings to his cheeks. ‘Not a wildcat!’ he sobbed. ‘Oh no! Oh no! What will become of me?’

  Peregrine silenced him with a look. ‘My officers and I have already identified the location of the nearest wildcat’s den.’ He scratched out a map on the pebbles. ‘It lies here, on the moor not far from Biggnaherry Cottage, beneath the ridge of rocks. It is vital, I repeat, vital, that the humans at the cottage do not get wind of our plan or they may try to stop us.’ He waited for a moment to let this sink in.

  ‘Yeah, humans stink,’ Thug said with feeling.

  ‘Shhhh!’ Slasher clapped a wing over his beak. ‘He’s working for one, remember?’

  ‘The wildcat is nocturnal,’ Peregrine resumed. ‘We will gather in the trees whilst it’s asleep. As dusk falls I will lead my officers in an airborne attack, which will drive our quarry out of its den. Then on the command of the Sergeant Major you will bungee jump out of the trees and drop the net on top of it.’