by Alex Milway
“There’s Mr. Spires,” she said. “At least he’s there!”
“Why don’t I distract the soldiers?” said Scratcher, “Maybe get them to run after me. Would that help?”
“If I could get around to the Messenger Mice pens behind the mansion, I should be able to find a way in.”
Scratcher nodded and smiled. “That’s our plan then. You ready?”
“I’m ready,” replied Emiline. “But where are we going to meet up? Back at the submarine?”
“If we don’t meet up before, then the sub it is!” said Scratcher, and with that he took off, tailed closely by Emiline.
Scratcher charged up the hill as though he were chasing after a Comet Mouse. He stayed to the path, running in and out of shadows. Because of the noise of his footsteps, the soldiers had seen him and were watching him closely. They withdrew their swords and formed a wall. Scratcher ducked down awkwardly and picked up a handful of the stones off the road. The soldiers stamped their feet, called out to him to stop, but he slid to a halt and threw the stones right at them.
“Oi!” shouted one of the guards. “Come back ’ere, you blighter!”
The sight of four soldiers pelting after him gave him enough energy to run faster than he’d ever done before. He felt as though the wind were in his heels, and he closed his eyes, hoping for a good escape.
Emiline watched Scratcher disappear into the darkness. Two other soldiers ran after him, and the rest muttered to each other, their attention on the road diverted. Emiline thought fast. She slipped through the shadows and crept down beside Lovelock’s mansion. Right in front of her was the Messenger Mouse pen. The only light around was that emanating from the stairwell winding up inside the house, but Emiline used it as well as she could to search for an unlocked window.
She scaled the pen and dropped down on the other side. A dim light shone out from the back of the mansion, and Emiline shuffled carefully around to its side. She found a smashed window; its glass was broken into daggerlike shards jutting up like shark’s teeth.
Emiline carefully climbed in and dropped to the floor. The room was lit up by a glow from the corridor beyond, and she could see wet muddy footprints leading from the window. She wasn’t the first to break in that night.
She headed toward the corridor and eased the door open further. The way was clear, and the wall lamps guided her out and up into the main hallway. Noises and shuffling feet could be heard moving around in the direction of the kitchens, and Emiline quickly hid in the unlit reception room. She waited and waited, and eventually two people came walking past. One of the voices was Mr. Spires, and Emiline’s heart skipped a beat.
The voices soon joined the sound of footsteps as they climbed the stairs, and Emiline darted from her hideout to follow them. It was a very strange feeling to have returned to her old home. Her views on all its inhabitants had changed so much since she left.
She tiptoed up the stairs, aware of each little noise around her. The shadow of Mr. Spires trailed on the wall a few floors above and came to a halt on the floor with Lovelock’s office. Emiline hoped that he would turn round and return, but he didn’t. He entered the room along with the other person, and Emiline’s hope of a fast exit quickly faded. The only option left to her was to return to the old haunt of her secret passageway, and find out what was happening inside.
“We’ve had a break-in, sir,” said the soldier. “We got distracted by some boy, and it must have been then that someone sneaked round the back.”
Lovelock stood up angrily.
“Are the mice safe?”
“Yes, sir!” replied the soldier. “And I’ve ordered a complete search of the mansion from the ground up. Whoever’s here won’t get very far.”
“This is not good news, Spires!” snapped Lovelock.
It was obvious that the Mayor, whose balding head was shining brightly, was none too impressed either. The Mayor looked an odd sort of man: nearing old age, his enormous body told of a life of opulence and overindulgence, yet his balding, shiny forehead and pudgy, rosy face made him look like a baby. He sat with his hands crossed over his fat waist, tutting at everything the soldier said.
“I’ve asked for a guard to be placed outside your office, sir, just to be safe,” added the butler.
“Excellent, Spires. At least there’s someone here whom I can trust.”
From the inside of the passage Emiline smiled. She would never have guessed that Mr. Spires was a spy, but now it made perfect sense. She remembered all the messages he used to send out, and how they must have been going to Algernon at Hamlyn.
Suddenly Battersby spoke up.
“Isiah, we do know that there is still one of Mousebeard’s accomplices in Old Town. Despite our best efforts to capture the innkeeper in Hamlyn, we know he was receiving word from here.”
“Well then, butler, you’d better make it several guards,” declared the Mayor.
“Yes, sir!” said Spires, who then continued, “I shall be gone for a while to the prison upon your orders, Mr. Lovelock. Do you wish me to wait around?”
“No, Spires. That won’t be necessary. I have Lord Battersby here.”
“Very good, sir,” replied the butler, and he promptly left the room.
Emiline rushed out of hiding. The corridor opened out and she could see Spires making his way down the stairs. She hurried down each step, and eventually, three floors down, she quietly called out.
“Mr. Spires!”
The butler stopped dead in his tracks and turned around. Astonishment spread all over his face. Then he frowned.
“Emiline!” he said frustratedly.
He grabbed her by the arm and pushed her against the wall into shadow.
“What are you doing here? It’s not safe!” he whispered.
“I’m here with Algernon. We need to talk.”
“Algernon?”
“He’s told me all about you. We’re here to save Drewshank and Mousebeard. We need your help!”
The butler’s eyes darted up the stairwell as if he’d heard something.
“Fine, but we have to go elsewhere. Where is Algernon?”
“Along the river past Pirate’s Wharf.”
“Right then,” he said, touching his brow. “Meet me at Pirate’s Wharf in twenty minutes. Can you manage that?”
Emiline nodded.
“Excellent,” said Spires, “I’d like to be sure you escape, but my hands are tied, Emiline. Keep safe . . . .”
The butler hurried downstairs without further ado.
Doors started to bang shut on the lower floors, and Emiline peered over the staircase to see soldiers milling about, checking every room. She found herself not knowing what to do. She glanced around, looking for a way out. Her only chance would be through a window, and she opened the first she saw.
She climbed up onto the stone windowsill and saw the long drop below. There was a drainpipe running all the way down a short way off, and when she heard the soldiers inside working their way up the stairs, she knew there was no other option. Emiline stretched out and caught hold of the metal pipe with one hand, and with the other she pulled the window closed. With a deep breath she leaped out and secured herself with both her hands and feet. Then, after quickly checking the route down, she started to slide: at first gracefully, but then as fast as she could manage safely. It was simply important to make it to the ground in one piece.
Emiline jumped the final few feet and landed safely. She was at the side of the mansion, and could see soldiers lined up at the roadside. Everything was still and surprisingly peaceful. She took a few steps forward, stopped to catch her breath, and then suddenly felt a heavy weight smash into her back.
She fell to the floor and was immediately jumped upon, a dagger positioned at her neck. The pain in her back was intense, and her arm throbbed from the fall.
“Always in my way,” said Miserley, kneeling on her spine. “You had to come barging in here, didn’t you, Blonde!”
“It’s you
!” said Emiline. “Why are you here?”
“That would be none of your business,” said Miserley.
“It’s the mice, isn’t it?”
“What?”
“The Golden Mice! You came to get the Golden Mice back!”
Miserley pressed down harder with her knee. Emiline struggled to breathe.
“Let me go,” implored Emiline. “I have to go.”
“Why should I do what you ask, Blonde?”
Miserley grabbed Emiline’s arm, bent it behind her back, and lifted her up.
“What do you want?” pleaded Emiline, feeling Miserley’s breath at the side of her face.
“You’re going to get those mice for me . . . .”
“I’m what?”
“Like you said, I’ve come to get the Golden Mice, but I had to get away when the soldiers came. And obviously, now that you’re here you can do it for me.”
Miserley saw Emiline’s hair twitch, shoved her hand in, and grabbed Portly.
“And if you don’t,” she said, holding the mouse aloft, “your mouse is going to lose some limbs, starting with the tail.” Pulling her dagger out, Miserley grabbed the mouse’s tail, holding the knife to it as if she were about to peel an apple.
“No!” cried Emiline. Miserley shoved her away roughly and stood holding Portly by the tip of his tail, his body squirming. Mice hate being held by their tails, and Portly squeaked with pain. Weazle sat up on Miserley’s shoulder, gleefully watching the events unfold.
“Put him down! He hasn’t done anything,” said Emiline angrily.
“Aw, poor little Blonde, this upset you? I’ll tell you what, you can have him back once you go inside and get those mice.”
“It’s teeming with soldiers; there’s no way I could get them . . . ,” whispered Emiline urgently.
“Save it, Blonde, this is getting boring,” said Miserley, pushing her dagger against Portly’s tail, whose ears shot back against his body.
Emiline tightened her fists.
“Oi! You!” shouted a soldier from a window. “Right, men! Here they are!”
Miserley’s eyes flicked from left to right. She opened the mousebox that hung at her belt and threw Portly inside.
“Looks like we’ll have to postpone our little girly chat for now. This isn’t the end, Blonde. Mark my words!” Emiline watched as Miserley turned and charged off through the undergrowth.
“Come back!” she said desperately. She could hear soldiers shouting and doors banging. There was nothing else to do — she had to run.
Emiline ran down the cobbled streets and caught her breath in a disused doorway not far from Pirate’s Wharf. Portly was gone, and she’d only just avoided the soldiers at Lovelock’s mansion. Her heart was torn in two — she knew she had to meet the butler, but all she really wanted was to rescue her mouse.
She let out a long sigh, and looked up and down the street. The butler’s carriage sailed past, bumping up and down as each stone rocked its wheels.
“Come on,” she said, lifting herself. Emiline continued down the street, hanging close to the sides of buildings. She reached the wharf and saw the carriage stop beside Mr. Droob’s hut, which was now sitting under the beginnings of one of the viewing stands, with woodworkers crawling over it. Spires called out something about checking that all was good with the scaffold, and then stepped carefully to the ground.
The butler was fully wrapped in a black cloak, and he walked over to the soldiers, who greeted him warily. Normally it would take three days’ work to put up such a giant scaffold, but they’d been given such a small amount of time that double the number of troops had been put on the job. After a close inspection, the butler was assured that the execution platform was almost finished, with six oiled-up and working trapdoors nearing completion and ready for the condemned.
Emiline left her cover but kept to the shadows and navigated the wharf to the riverside. Spires was glancing around himself and eventually caught sight of Emiline. He casually made his leave with the soldiers and strode off along the water’s edge. Within a short time he was covered by shadow, having stepped out of the reach of any oil lamp, and Emiline approached.
“Mr. Spires,” she said, looking around uneasily, “follow me.”
Emiline led him to the river path. She looked along the river, ready to point out where Algernon’s submarine would be, but there was no way to get to it. Marching slowly toward them, partly concealed by the darkness, was a battalion of soldiers. Emiline dropped her hand.
“I have to hurry, as I’m certain you appreciate,” said the butler, anxiously.
“I know,” she replied, “but look!”
“Damn,” he muttered, spotting the men. “Old Town is crawling with soldiers!”
The soldiers’ footsteps were coming closer, and eventually the group of men halted only meters in front.
The leading soldier pushed his hat up and eyed them suspiciously.
“Your papers!” he ordered, as the other troops massed behind.
“Yes, sir, certainly,” replied Spires. He withdrew a small piece of paper from his suit pocket, which outlined his name and position. As soon as the soldier saw the name Isiah Lovelock, he waved and apologized for the inconvenience. He then looked at Emiline, noticing how dirty her clothes were.
“And this is his mousekeeper,” said the butler promptly. Emiline tried to smile.
The soldier waited a few moments, looking closely at her face, but then looked back to Spires.
“Right you are, sir!” he said gruffly. “Carry on, men!”
Emiline sighed with relief as the soldiers walked past, but as the last two men walked in front of her, Emiline gripped the butler’s arm. Before she could cry out, Spires grabbed her, placing his hand over her mouth.
Walking behind the battalion, arms tied and joined to the soldiers in front by an iron chain, was Scratcher. His head hung low, and blood was dripping from a cut on his forehead. He struggled to walk, and didn’t notice Emiline as he passed by.
“Scratcher,” she muttered as the butler’s hand lowered.
“Your friend?” asked Spires.
“Yes,” she replied, tears welling in her eyes. She suddenly felt that she was on the brink of losing everything.
“We have even less time to lose now, then,” he said bravely. “I did try and warn you about all this, Emiline . . . .”
“I know, I know . . . .”
The butler placed his hand on her shoulder kindly.
“Take me to Algernon, Emiline. We need to sort out this mess.”
Emiline watched Scratcher walk out of view past Pirate’s Wharf, and then she started to run.
“Quick, Mr. Spires,” she said, heading off down the path.
She reached the spot where she’d left the submarine, and threw a handful of stones into the water. They both looked cautiously around, making sure the way was clear. Within seconds, bubbles were popping at the surface, and the submarine broke the water. With a click and a whirr, the circular door on its roof kicked back.
“Horatio!” exclaimed Algernon happily. “So good to see you! Come on in!”
The Miramus
A VERY UNUSUAL AND RATHER CREEPY MOUSE THAT’S RARELY SEEN IN THE wild. The Miramus wanders the land until it finds a mouse it likes (never one of the same species, however) and then becomes its doppelgänger, mimicking its every movement and actions.
Many mice go insane once they’ve been ensnared by a Miramus, and because of this it is seen as a harbinger of madness: “He’s been spotted by the Miramus” is a phrase often said of someone who appears slightly unhinged.
MOUSING NOTES
Miramus have been kept by collectors, but never very successfully. Many a collector has lost prize species to the Miramus, despite their being caged at a great distance. It’s not a banned mouse, but it’s not one to be kept without proper supervision.
The Shadow of Pirate’s Wharf
“IT’S LOOKING PRETTY GRIM,” SAID SPIRES IN A FLASH,
quashing his friend’s enthusiasm. He clambered awkwardly into the small opening, with Emiline following. She pulled the hatch closed and the lock whirled and clicked shut.
“We’re in a rather grave situation,” continued Spires.
“They’ve got Scratcher and Portly,” said Emiline, her voice breaking when she heard the words come from her mouth.
Algernon took off his glasses and sat down slowly. Spires was shocked.
“You didn’t mention your mouse!” he said.
“Oh, my!” said Algernon. “This is worse than we could ever have thought possible.”
“Mousebeard’s mousekeeper attacked me,” said Emiline. “She was after the Golden Mice.”
“That girl is a bundle of trouble,” he said angrily. “And where’s she gone?”
“I’ve no idea . . . but there was no way I was going to give her the Golden Mice!”
“If she’s after those creatures,” said Spires, “the best chance she’ll get will be at the execution tomorrow. They’re going to be on display — shown to the crowds to let them know what an amazing thing Battersby’s achieved.”
“They are?” said Algernon. “Then we’ll have to keep our eyes open. We’ll have to do our best to make sure she doesn’t get away . . . .”
Algernon whistled loudly, his mice rushed to the dashboard, and soon the submarine was sinking to the river floor.
“Oh, I’ve made such a mess of it all,” said Spires, ducking in the cramped interior in a manner most unlike a butler. “They kept so much from me, Algernon. It was all that Battersby’s doing. There was so much I didn’t know about. And now Emiline’s friend and mouse are involved too . . . .”
