“You two-timing little minx,” she bellowed. “Spreading lies. Learning rubbish. Inheriting shops. Behind our backs. After all we’ve done for you!”
“Steady on, Smoochikins,” interrupted Ronald. “We don’t want to be cross with Emily now, do we?”
“Why not?” asked Daisy, ready to give her another smack.
Ronald whispered to his wife.
Daisy gritted her teeth and let go of Emily.
“Sit down, Emily,” said Ronald in his hedge fund manager voice, slimy, slippery. “You are a very lucky girl, aren’t you, inheriting all that money—plus a shop? Of course, you are too young to know about investments and how to make your money grow. Never mind what Mr. Twizell said—you will need some professional help, and that’s where I come in, as your adoptive father. Tomorrow we’ll go and see my lawyer. If you do what he tells you, we might give you your old room back, mightn’t we, Smoochikins?” Daisy pursed her thin red lips tighter than a drawstring bag. “You would like that, wouldn’t you, Emily? Perhaps you’d even go to school with other boys and girls.”
Emily could only think of Fidget waiting outside to help her run away. That thought alone made her feel brave.
“You were supposed to be my adoptive parents, you were supposed to care for me, you were supposed to send me to school even if I hadn’t inherited a shop. I am not supposed to be your Cinderella. So buddleia to all your promises. I wouldn’t trust you with a piggy bank if I had one.”
“You little minx! Oh, my days,” said Daisy. She stood bolt upright, looking like a man-eating boa constrictor. She dragged Emily to the laundry room, while Emily fought with all her might to free herself. It was no use. Once again, she was shut in the laundry room. The key turned in the door.
* * *
When everyone had gone to bed, Emily moved the ironing board to the window. She was relieved to find that the Dashwoods had forgotten to lock it. With her cardboard suitcase in one hand, she climbed out. Unfortunately, she missed her footing and by mistake landed on the trash cans outside. They clanged louder than a hundred alarm bells.
“That’s blown it,” said a familiar voice, and Fidget appeared from the bushes. They made a run for it.
“I’m so pleased you’re here,” said Emily.
“I’m so pleased you’re free, my little ducks. But you’ll have to go faster than that.”
“I’m trying,” said Emily, “but my slippers keep falling off.”
“Slippers,” said Fidget. He stopped and opened a small rucksack he was carrying on his back. Emily was impressed to see how well dressed he was. In brogues, an overcoat, scarf, and hat, he almost didn’t look like a long-haired tortoiseshell cat, apart from his tail. He quickly took out a pair of Miss String’s lace-up boots and a red coat. Both fitted Emily as if they had been made for her.
“Better?” asked Fidget.
“Better,” said Emily.
At that moment, the light went on in the Dashwoods’ bedroom. The window opened, and Ronald looked out. Emily and Fidget pressed themselves into the shadows of the squirrel box hedges.
“What is it?” Emily heard Daisy ask.
“Only that huge cat from next door, I think.”
“Tomorrow,” screeched Daisy, “come what may, I’m taking that mangy cat to the vet to be put down. I just wish we could do the same with…”
Fidget and Emily didn’t wait to hear another word. They set off as fast as they could, paw in hand. They ran away from the executive houses, down the lane toward the woods. Beyond the woods lay the railway station.
Then they heard the sound of a car speeding toward them.
Fidget pulled Emily behind a tree. The car’s headlights lit up the woods and came to a grinding halt. Ronald and Daisy Dashwood climbed out.
“I thought I saw her over there,” said Daisy.
Ronald shone a flashlight into the woods.
“There she is!” shouted Daisy. “The little minx—she’s with someone. Ronald. Who’s she with? I can’t see.”
Ronald’s flashlight shone blindly into the inky night. Fidget could see perfectly well in the dark, due to having cat’s eyes. He nimbly guided Emily along the woodland path and across a small bridge, avoiding the boggy marsh that surrounded the stream.
On the other side, they started to run again. Emily glanced back at the light still close on their heels.
Suddenly, Daisy screamed. “Ronald, I’m stuck! Why didn’t you tell me it was all boggy?”
Slurping sounds could be heard, and Ronald cursed as he too slid into the marsh.
“Ronald,” Daisy bellowed, “I have lost my very expensive shoes in all this mud. Oh, my days. That minx has had it when I lay my hands on her.”
“Do you know where we’re going?” Emily asked Fidget anxiously.
“Yes, don’t worry, my little ducks—I’ve done this many times before.”
“Run away?” asked Emily.
“No,” said Fidget. “Gone traveling.”
They arrived at East Grimewood station with only moments to spare before their train departed. Emily was flabbergasted that no one noticed Fidget was a cat. The ticket man didn’t even look up when Fidget asked for two first-class tickets to London/Liverpool Street. Once aboard the train, Emily was certain they were safe. They had escaped by a whisker.
Chapter Twelve
Emily’s heart sank as the Dashwoods rushed onto the platform, shouting at the conductor to stop the train.
“Get under the table,” said Fidget. He disappeared behind a newspaper he’d found lying on the seat next to him.
“What’s happening?” asked Emily.
“The Dashwoods are wet through,” said Fidget under his breath. “Mrs. Dashwood has no shoes, and Ronald’s white trousers are poo-brown. He, too, is missing a shoe. The conductor is staring at them as if they are both bonkers.” Fidget chuckled. “Now the stationmaster is leading them away.”
The whistle sounded, and the train lurched forward.
“We’re off,” said Fidget.
“Gosh,” said Emily, impressed. “You really do know what to do.”
“Of course,” replied Fidget. “Animal instinct.”
Emily returned to her seat, relieved to see the Dashwoods becoming a speck of dirt in the distance.
“Do you know why Alfred Twizell said I was in danger?”
“Yes. Because of Harpella,” replied Fidget.
“Who’s she?” asked Emily.
“I believe she called herself Doris Harper when she paid a visit to your ex-adoptive-mother-slash-employer, Mrs. Dashwood.”
“Oh, no!” said Emily.
“Oh, yes, my little ducks. Half bird, all witch, is Harpella. The scariest old trout who ever lived. It was she who snatched away the spirits of the triplets.”
“How?” said Emily.
“The same way she has always done such things—with her spirit lamp. I’ll tell you this for a barrelful of pickled herrings—that lamp has a lot to answer for. Harpella and her spirit lamp caused the accident that killed Miss String.”
Emily felt a lump of sadness in her throat. “Is Harpella the same witch who killed the magician?” she asked.
“Yes, and she would kill you too if she could. She can’t because you’re human. But she’ll try to trick you to get her hands on the keys. She’s been after you since you broke the spell and brought the keys back to life. Now you’re the Keeper of the Keys.”
“But why me?”
“Search my sardine tin, I don’t know.”
The keys had climbed out of his rucksack and were dancing about on the table.
“Not this again,” said Fidget, trying to catch them. “We don’t want Harpella to hear them. The little blighters take no notice of me. They had me chasing my tail until I told them you were coming with us.”
Emily opened her small suitcase and the keys, all seventeen of them, their boots neatly tied, jumped in together. She firmly locked the clasp.
Fidget noticed tears in her eye
s and put his paw across the table. Emily held it tight.
“It’s not your fault, my little ducks. No one, not even Miss String, could have guessed that it would be you who would wake up the keys.”
Emily stopped crying as the train was coming into London. That was when Fidget saw what he had been dreading. Heading his way, dressed in an ill-fitting train steward’s uniform, her hair alight with flames and snakes, was Harpella. Her scrawny bird’s talons clasped the handle of a tea trolley, and peeping from under her skirt were her crimson chicken legs. She was throwing plastic cups at any passengers who were foolish enough to ask for refreshments, and if they complained, she pelted them with chocolate bars and potato chips.
Over the loudspeaker the conductor could be heard: “If any off-duty policemen are on board, would they please make themselves known to the train staff immediately.”
Emily, who had never seen Harpella in the flesh, so to speak, couldn’t mistake the unforgettable voice of Doris Harper. Emily peered round and nearly let out a scream. Harpella looked as though she had escaped from a horror film. Why Daisy Dashwood had been foolish enough to let her into the house in the first place, Emily couldn’t understand.
At that moment, the conductor rushed past them, heading for the fiery creature.
“I wouldn’t,” said Fidget, putting out a paw to try to stop him. “Best to let enraged witches be.”
“I have a duty toward my passengers,” said the conductor, and bravely barred Harpella’s way.
“You can’t come in here,” he said to her. “These are first-class coaches.”
“Time to leave,” said Fidget, and stood up. He and Emily walked swiftly to the front of the train.
Suddenly, there was a flash, as if the train had been hit by a thunderbolt. It shuddered to a violent halt, its brakes shrieking, its wheels grinding on the tracks. The first two carriages just reached the platform of Liverpool Street Station, and miraculously, the doors flew open.
Emily looked back into the carriage to see a small pink rabbit hop-hop-hopping toward her.
“Tickets please,” he called out pitifully. “Anyone with tickets?”
“Fidget, look, there’s a pink rabbit. We can’t just leave it.”
“Yes, we can,” said Fidget, who was already on the platform.
“I can’t,” said Emily. “The poor thing looks so sad.” She scooped it up and jumped off the train, her suitcase in one hand and the rabbit under her arm. She and Fidget ran as fast as they could through the main concourse.
The station clock showed midnight. The last train had just left, and Liverpool Street Station was empty, apart from the police officers heading for the half-stranded train, their walkie-talkies blaring.
Emily followed Fidget along the side of Platform Ten to where the Lost Property Office stood. It appeared, like everything else, to be closed. Fidget knocked on the door, and it was opened by a young man with a ring in his nose and a Mohawk hairstyle. A blue cockerel crest stuck up right along the middle of his head.
“You made it,” he said.
“Yes, Sam. It was touch and go.”
“Come in, come in,” said Sam. He shut and bolted the door behind them. “Harpella, I take it,” said Sam. “I’ve been watching the CCTV cameras. It doesn’t look good.”
Emily stared at the monitor. The police were on the platform, which was filled with pink rabbits.
Sam looked down at the rabbit nibbling his trousers.
“This one?” asked Sam.
“The conductor of the train, unfortunately,” sighed Fidget. “I tried to warn him.”
“Excuse me,” interrupted Emily. “This rabbit is the conductor of the train?”
“Yes,” said Fidget. “And most probably he has a wife and two carrots at home.”
“Harpella and the spirit lamp, then,” said Sam.
“Yes,” said Fidget.
“Oh dear.”
“Oh dear, indeed,” said Fidget.
“Tickets, please,” said the pink rabbit.
Chapter Thirteen
Emily had no idea how she and Fidget had arrived in the heart of the countryside. The last thing she remembered was the Lost Property Office, and the next thing she knew, she was standing in the early morning sunshine at a disused railway station.
“Come on, my little ducks,” said Fidget, leaping down from the platform onto the grassy tracks.
“Wait,” said Emily. “Where’s the pink rabbit?”
Fidget picked up a picnic hamper. Emily lifted the lid and peered in to see the rabbit munching on a carrot.
“Tickets, please,” he said.
“Luckily for us, someone had left this hamper in Lost Property.”
They set off, following the overgrown railway track. In the early morning mist, a little town could be seen. And beside the town ran a river, its boats twinkling silver in the glimmering sunlight.
“It looks like a picture postcard,” said Emily. Her tummy rumbled.
“Hungry?” asked Fidget.
“Yes,” said Emily. And she was.
Fidget opened his rucksack and rummaged inside until he found what he was searching for. He pulled out an argumentative kettle, who in its turn pulled out a teacup. The teacup pulled out its friend and two saucers, while the milk jug and the sugar bowl played tug-of-war with a spotted tablecloth.
“They were much better behaved when Miss String was alive,” said Fidget sadly, bringing out a bag of buns, a packet of butter, and a pot of strawberry jam.
“Maybe they miss her like we do.”
“That’s a good enough reason in my litter box,” said Fidget. “The trouble is, I don’t quite have the same sparkle as the old girl when it comes to controlling magic.”
A fight had started between the milk jug and the teapot.
“I always go first,” said the milk jug. “Remember? Milk first, then tea.”
“Stop it, all of you,” said Emily firmly. “Just be good. What would Miss String say if she were here?”
At that, all the china stood to attention.
“Thank you,” said Emily. “We have quite enough trouble without you all being difficult.”
“Well put, my little ducks,” said Fidget, impressed.
Emily drank her tea and ate her bun with the delicious strawberry jam. “Can I ask you a question?” she said.
“Just one. I’m not Miss String—I’m a cat whose mind is on fish paste.” One question. That, thought Emily, was going to be very hard indeed. There were so many questions she wanted to ask. Like how had they arrived here when last night they were in London? Instead, she settled on “What is a spirit lamp?”
“It’s a magic lamp that Harpella stole from a wizard a long time ago.”
“What for?”
“Hold your whiskers—I’m working up to that point. To catch fairies.”
“That’s terrible!” said Emily.
“Diabolical, that’s what Miss String called it. Diabolical.”
“Whatever it means, I agree,” said Emily.
“It means, according to Miss String, about the worst thing you could ever see,” continued Fidget. “Harpella had a mission to murder each and every one of the fairies in the world.”
“How?” asked Emily.
“That’s another question.”
“No, it’s not, it’s joined up to the first.”
Fidget thought for a long time. “You’re right.” He took a deep breath. “The spirit lamp gives off a light that is impossible to resist. The fairy is sucked into the flame, like a moth. Swat—gone.”
“That’s dia-bol-ical!” said Emily.
“It was, until one midsummer, all the fairies who were left in England met and decided their wings should be locked away so they would no longer be tempted to fly into the spirit lamp. That was when they asked for the help of the magician—”
“The magician who designed Wings & Co.?” interrupted Emily. “The shop with the legs—”
“The very same,” said Fi
dget. “And he had some curious cabinets built for the fairies’ wings, and put a spell on the keys to them so the wings would be safe. It took a lot of craftsmanship to build those curious cabinets,” he added with pride.
“You were the master builder Miss String told me about, weren’t you?” said Emily.
“I might have been,” said Fidget, gathering up the remaining cup and saucer.
“And it was Harpella who turned you into a cat, wasn’t it?” she asked.
“That,” said Fidget, “is clearly two more questions.”
Emily stood up and brushed the crumbs off her coat.
“That’s the trouble with questions,” she said. “One is never enough.”
“Personally, I find the same with a good kipper,” replied Fidget, putting the china and the kettle back in the rucksack. He picked up the hamper containing the pink rabbit. “Come on, my little ducks,” he said. “We have to find the shop.”
“Why do we have to find the shop?”
“Because there are a few fairies out there who are desperate for their wings.”
“But if the keys open the cabinets and the fairies get their wings back, won’t Harpella just kill them like before?”
“That’s why she wants the keys, my little ducks, and that’s why we also have to find the old witch and take that lamp away from her. But it’s not going to be that easy. She has other powers, just as diabolical.”
“How do you catch a witch?” said Emily.
“How do you catch a fish?” replied Fidget. “With bait. And that’s what we’re going to do.”
“Oh dear,” said Emily. “I don’t like the sound of that.”
Chapter Fourteen
Emily began to think they might never find the shop. Podgy Bottom wasn’t a large town, and it seemed to be stuffed full of antique shops and very little else.
“Not even a fishmonger,” Fidget said bitterly. “And definitely not our shop. I think Alfred Twizell was wrong about this. The shop has gone walking again.”
“If only we had an address, or some sort of clue,” said Emily, thinking of the old lady detective with the knitting. “Anyway,” she added, “why would a building hide?”
Operation Bunny Page 4
