by Alan Snow
Madame Froufrou addressed her remaining customers.
“We have, I am afraid, sold out of our little friends in the box, but it is not my way to let you poor ladies go home . . . with no chance of social position. It seems I have a late special offer.”
The remaining ladies let out their breath. Roberto and Raymond disappeared down behind the stage, and after a few moments three large zinc buckets were passed up.
Arthur stared at the buckets, then turned to Willbury. “You’re not thinking what I’m thinking about those buckets, are you?”
Willbury frowned. “If I am, this is definitely more than a coincidence!”
“Come closer, ladies. In these vessels are some very special creatures that have only come into fashion in the last few minutes,” Madame Froufrou whispered.
The remaining ladies happily made their way to the front of the stage.
“Yes! The very, very latest. Freshwater sea-cows! Dredged from the banks of the Seine. These creatures are the very height of chic in the bathrooms of Pari and Milan.”
The ladies started to giggle, and Willbury gathered up his shopping bags. “Quick, Arthur. Grab your things. I am going to have words with this Madame Froufrou.”
Arthur picked up his sacks and followed Willbury toward the platform.
“Excuse me, madam!” called Willbury. Madame Froufrou looked from Willbury to the ladies, then back at Willbury.
“I am sorry, ladies, but I have to go.” She snatched the money from the outstretched hands. “Help yourselves to the buckets.” Then she turned and jumped off the back of the stage.
“Excuse me, madam! Where do you think you are going?” shouted Willbury. “I want a word with you!”
Arthur followed Willbury as he ran around to the back of the platform.
Madame Froufrou and her assistants were gone.
Willbury looked quizzically at Arthur. “You said she looked familiar to you. Do you know where you might have seen her?”
“I’m not sure, but, well, I know it’s strange, but I got the same feeling when I was looking at her that I got when the leader of the cheese hunt cornered me. She could have been his twin sister.”
“Very strange indeed . . . .” Willbury paused to think. “Something is very wrong . . . and weird. I think we had better go and find Marjorie. Maybe she can throw some light on things.”
Madame Froufrou and her assistants were gone.
Outside the Patent Hall.
chapter 14
THE PATENT HALL
A miniature French poodle.
As they made their way up the side streets toward the Patent Hall, Willbury became increasingly excited.
“Before today I’d never seen, nor even heard of, miniature boxtrolls, cabbageheads, sea-cows, or trotting badgers. And now there are miniatures everywhere!” said Willbury.
“I suppose there are different types of creatures in different countries,” Arthur suggested.
“True. I’ve heard of miniature French poodles, so I guess France might be the home of a lot of small things,” Willbury said pensively. “All the same, I don’t like something about what’s going on . . . . Think how unhappy those poor creatures were when they arrived at the shop. And as for Madame Froufrou . . . Well! The less said about her, the better!”
“Except, well, she makes me nervous,” Arthur admitted, bewilderment in his voice.
Willbury looked at the bag. “Arthur, I wonder . . . This business of the hunt leader and Madame Froufrou looking like brother and sister is strange. Do you suppose all this bother is tied up in some way?”
Arthur gave a slight shrug. “Do you think your friend might be able to help?” he asked.
“Well, she might not be able to shed any light on this matter of the miniature creatures, but as for getting you back to your grandfather with your wings, maybe she can help. As I said, Marjorie knows pretty well everybody in the town who has anything to do with mechanics.”
“Who is Marjorie?” asked Arthur.
“Marjorie was my clerk.”
“Marjorie was my clerk. Very bright woman. She used to deal with patent claims mostly. Invariably she could understand most inventions better than their creators, so when I retired, she decided to go into inventing rather than sticking with law. She has a natural aptitude for it. A lot of the legal stuff can be very boring so I was not surprised. Anyway, with all the legal work she did with patents and now with her own inventing, she knows everybody who has anything to do with machines and the like.” At that, Willbury nodded his head vigorously as though agreeing with himself. Then he leaned close to Arthur and added, “Though it is quite a secretive world, if you are trusted like she is, you do get to hear what is going on.”
“So do you suppose she might have heard where my wings are?”
“That is what I’m hoping, but even supposing we do get your wings back, we still have to get you back underground.” Willbury sighed.
“Yes . . . I have been thinking about Grandfather . . .”
Willbury put a hand on Arthur’s shoulder. “There have to be other ways to get you back.”
A trotting badger.
“There are,” said Arthur. “But I just don’t know where!”
Willbury stopped in his tracks. “What do you mean? Have you heard of other routes?”
“Well, lots of creatures live underground, and not just under Ratbridge. Some of their tunnels link up. It might be possible to go down one of the tunnels outside Ratbridge and get back to Grandfather. But I just don’t know where the other tunnels come out aboveground. And it might be dangerous,” Arthur replied.
“Dangerous?” Willbury sounded surprised.
“Yes. I was always warned to stay away from the outer tunnels. Trotting badgers live in some of them . . . and they can be very, very nasty. Grandfather lost a finger to one when he was younger.”
“And what about the other creatures?” asked Willbury.
“There are rabbits . . . and rabbit women.”
“Rabbit women? I thought they were just a myth.”
“Oh, no! They exist. I saw them once when I was exploring . . . well, not actually them . . . I found a home cave,” replied Arthur.
“Home cave?”
A rabbit woman knitting rabbit wool.
“It’s a place where they live. You can tell it’s a home cave by the things they leave about—scraps of food, ash, rabbit droppings, and suits the rabbit women have knitted from rabbit wool.”
“So do you know where the rabbit women’s holes are? Could we find one?” asked Willbury.
“No.” Arthur’s face fell. “I don’t think so. They tend to be rather private and keep very much to themselves. They have to . . . to avoid the trotting badgers.” He paused. “Besides, the rabbit women are so good at tunneling that their holes could be miles away.”
It had started to drizzle. They trudged glumly along until they came to a small crossroads. Willbury pointed down one of the streets. “This way. The Patent Hall is not far now.”
“By the way, what exactly is a patent?” asked Arthur.
“Oh! That was my speciality as a lawyer.” Willbury perked up a little. “A patent is a legal certificate given by the government to the inventor of some new device or idea or process. The patent says that because it is their idea, they are the owner of that invention. This gives them the right to use their invention without others copying it without their permission. The patent will last for some years, and that way, inventors can profit from their inventions.”
“Does that mean that if I had invented string, I could charge everybody who made or sold string?”
“Yes, Arthur, if you had invented string, you would be a very, very rich man.” Willbury chuckled.
“So what happens at the Patent Hall?”
“It’s a government office where the inventors go to get patents. They have to prove that their ideas work and are totally new.”
They turned up another side street, and there in front of them
stood the Patent Hall. It was a fine building with a frontage that looked like a Greek temple. Arthur had noticed it before when he had been flying, but approaching it on foot, it seemed far bigger than he remembered. There was a queue of inventors that started in the street, led up the steps and past the pillared entrance, and disappeared through a huge pair of oak doors. The members of the queue all carried carefully wrapped bundles and looked nervously at Arthur and Willbury as they passed.
“Why are they looking at us like that?” asked Arthur.
“They are worried that someone might steal their ideas before they are registered and patented,” said Willbury. “There are people that come here specifically to try and get their hands on new ideas and rob the poor inventors of their patents.”
Willbury led Arthur up the steps of the Patent Hall. Just inside, a man was handing tickets to people in the queue, which led into a large crowded hall. A series of tents, each with a number on it, lined the hall. The tents were made of thick canvas that had seen better days and were now covered in burns and a multitude of stains. Strange noises and the odd flash of light emanated from several of the tents. Outside each of these tents stood a queue of even more nervous-looking inventors.
“That is where the inventors have to give their initial demonstrations. If they get through that, they are sent upstairs to have their inventions checked for originality,” said Willbury, walking toward the tents.
A group of very shifty-looking men stood at the far end of the hall. Arthur caught Willbury glaring at them.
“Failed Patent Acquisition Officers! Scum!” Willbury muttered, to Arthur’s surprise.
“Who are?” asked Arthur.
“That lot at the foot of the stairs!” Willbury pointed an accusing finger. “They are the very scum of the mechanical world. Technical vultures! They hit a man when he’s down, and by the time he recovers, they have either made off with his invention or have him so tied up in contracts that he either has to buy them off or hand the whole thing over to them. Vermin! They should be locked up!”
“The very scum of the mechanical world.”
“How do they do that?” asked Arthur, peering nervously at the men.
“Well, if an inventor isn’t granted a patent because his idea is not fully developed or the patent officers just don’t understand it, the inventor can get very upset and disheartened, and that lot . . .”—Willbury pointed his finger again at the group at the bottom of the stairs—“. . . that lot move in on him.”
The Failed Patent Acquisition Officers spotted Willbury pointing at them and were now trying either to hide behind the tents or slide along the walls and out the exit.
Willbury’s voice grew louder. “Every day they assemble there, waiting for their chance to spring. They watch for unhappy faces leaving the tents, then, with all the slime they can muster, they approach the person and offer him ‘sympathy.’ They might take him around the corner for a cup of tea, offer him a biscuit or piece of cake, tell him they might have a few bob to help him take his project further, ask him to just sign a little document to show they are pals and will be willing to have fun together . . . and before he knows what’s hit him, he doesn’t own the clothes he stands up in! The scum then turn the screw. They make the person finish his project under the threat of legal action, then sell it once it’s patented . . . without a single penny going back to the inventor.”
Willbury took a turnip from his shopping bag and threw it.
Willbury’s voice could now be heard throughout the hall. He was more agitated than Arthur had ever seen him, yet Arthur was even more surprised when Willbury took a turnip from his shopping bag and threw it at the last of the Failed Patent Acquisition Officers, who were sneaking out the main doors.
There was a yelp from outside, and some of the older inventors cheered.
“Very satisfactory!” said Willbury, rubbing his hands. “When I was a lawyer, it was a favorite pastime of mine to break the grasp of that filth. I have very happily kicked their posteriors on a number of occasions! And if there was one thing that would persuade me to come out of retirement, it would be the opportunity to kick a few more.”
Arthur simply stared at Willbury.
“Now,” said Willbury, “come, my boy.” He grasped Arthur’s arm. “Let us find Marjorie!”
Willbury walked over to one of the queues, and when he asked about Marjorie’s whereabouts, several arms pointed up to the balcony on the second floor. Arthur and Willbury set off up the stairs. When they reached the top, Willbury led Arthur to a small tent at the far end of the balcony where a very unhappy-looking woman sat hunched in a deck chair, reading a book of mathematical tables. Willbury coughed and the woman looked up.
“Good morning, Marjorie,” said Willbury. “How are you? I would like you to meet a good friend of mine, Arthur.”
The woman dropped the book of tables to her lap and immediately ranted, “Not well, Mr. Nibble. Not well. I have been stuck here for months, and things are not looking good!” She paused for a moment, then stood up and reached out a hand to Arthur. “I’m sorry. How very impolite of me. I am pleased to meet you, Arthur.” She gave him half a smile. “It’s just everything has gone wrong for me.”
In a deck chair sat a very unhappy-looking woman.
Arthur shook her hand and gave her a sympathetic smile back.
“I did want to ask you for some help, but before we get on to that, please, tell me what has happened here,” said Willbury.
“I came here three months ago with my new invention, did my initial demonstration downstairs, and then was sent up here to see a Mr. Edward Trout. He had to check the machine for originality. I was a bit dubious when he said he was taking it away for inspection. Then he didn’t come back!”
“What! He never came back?” asked Willbury.
The receipt.
“Yes! That’s right. I can prove that I gave him a machine because I’ve got a receipt, but because my receipt has no description of my machine on it, I can’t prove what it is that he has of mine. They keep trying to get rid of me by sending out junior clerks with any old rubbish they can find in the warehouse, but I won’t leave until they give me back my invention!” By now Marjorie was in such a rage, she was standing.
A junior clerk with a piece of rubbish from the warehouse.
“Oh dear, dear me!” said Willbury. “This is terrible. So you’ve camped out here ever since?”
“The other inventors have been very good about it. They bring me food when they can . . . and this tent and chair. But I can’t spend the rest of my life here.”
Willbury looked very concerned. “No . . . no you can’t.”
Marjorie continued on. “The clerk who disappeared has apparently now left the employment of the patent office, and I am very scared that he just ran off with my invention.”
“Do you suppose it was so good that he’s . . . stolen it? What was it?” asked Willbury.
Marjorie furtively looked around, then she whispered to Willbury, “I know I can trust you, Mr. Nibble . . . but at this point I think it better that no one else knows! I will tell you that it is fantastic. It is the culmination of the last two years’ work. But in the wrong hands, it could be very dangerous . . . and now it has either been stolen or lost!” Marjorie looked so sad that Willbury took her hand in his.
Arthur caught Willbury’s eye and pointed to the sack.
“I know it may be of little comfort, but we have brought you some pies from Mr. Whitworth,” said Willbury. “Arthur, why don’t you get them out while I go and have a word with the head patent officer, Mr. Louis Trout.”
“Louis Trout?” said Marjorie. “It was an Edward Trout that went off with my machine.”
“I had heard that Louis Trout’s son had joined the office. It must have been him,” said Willbury. “I am sure that he will know exactly what has happened.”
“You’ll never get in to see him, Mr. Nibble,” said Marjorie. “I have been trying for weeks!”
&
nbsp; “You’ll never get in to see him, Mr. Nibble!”
“I think I shall. He knows me from a certain legal case. And if I let one or two things drop in conversation with his receptionist, I think he will see me very quickly.”
With that, Willbury left Arthur and Marjorie and opened the grandest of the doors along the balcony.
Marjorie’s eye fixed on the sack. “Err, um . . . what flavor pies are they?”
“We’ve got six pork and sage, a couple of turkey and ham, and Mr. Whitworth gave me a cake as well. You can share that with me if you want,” offered Arthur.
Suddenly Marjorie looked a lot more perky. “It’s not one of Mr. Whitworth’s mulberry cakes, is it?”
“I am not sure,” replied Arthur. “Why?”
“You wouldn’t be offering to share it if it was,” Marjorie jested.
Arthur reached inside the sack, pulled out the smallest of the bundles, and unwrapped it. The cake was pink and dotted with small pieces of fruit.
“It is!” declared Marjorie. “Joy upon joy. Do you really not mind sharing it?”
Arthur grinned. “I don’t mind.” And he broke the cake in two and passed half to Marjorie. She stared at the cake and after a few moments closed her eyes and took a bite. Arthur watched her, then did the same. As soon as the cake entered his mouth the flavor burst over his tongue. Marjorie was right—it was a joy. He opened his eyes to see Marjorie stuff the rest of her half of the cake into her mouth at one go.
“Now I remember food! My stomach thought that my throat had been cut. Do you mind if I get stuck into a pork and sage pie . . . or two?”
Arthur reached inside the sack again and pulled out the rest of the parcels. He unwrapped one; it had a pig made of pastry on the top. “I guess this must be pork and sage then?”
“Yes. Whitworth always puts a sign on his pies so you can recognize what’s inside.” Arthur passed her the pie. “I have to thank you for bringing these to me. It is very kind.”
