Roberta Dankworth finished brushing Citrine’s ears and leaned over to plant a kiss on her wet nose. ‘You are so beautiful,’ she cooed at the creature. ‘You make Mummy very proud.’
The hound nuzzled her owner and looked for all the world as if she were smiling, until a series of high-pitched barks interrupted the tender moment.
Roberta turned and looked at the poodle, who was strapped into a tiny high chair attached to another grooming table behind her. The hair on top of the dog’s head was expertly parted and rolled up into six curlers. ‘You make Mummy proud too, Farrah, but I’m not happy about those dark circles under your eyes.’ Roberta opened a drawer underneath the bench Citrine was perched on. She fished around and found what she was looking for, then unscrewed the lid. ‘All the top models swear by this,’ she said as she dabbed some haemorrhoid cream under Farrah’s eyes. ‘Now, sit here and rest while Mummy finishes up your sister.’
Roberta had been practising putting false eyelashes on Citrine all day, which the hound hadn’t appreciated in the slightest. This time she was determined to make them stick. Roberta pulled another packet from the drawer.
Citrine flinched and turned her head away. The grooming bench, which Roberta had designed herself, boasted a giant tub at one end, complete with a hydraulic lift, which left no chance of injury to either animal or human at bath time. At the other end was a low bench for the beasts to stand on while they were being dried. Several wide drawers contained supercharged hair dryers, curling irons and crimpers as well as a vast array of beauty products. To finish the room, a mirror spanned the length of an entire wall, allowing the animals to admire themselves while they were being primped and preened. A smaller bench stood along another wall. It had been built especially for Farrah as Roberta didn’t want her to feel left out. The whole space looked rather like an upmarket beauty salon.
Roberta took out a small pair of clippers and began to cut Citrine’s toenails with the utmost precision. Although the woman currently had six Afghans in her kennel, Citrine was her favourite, particularly having taken out Best in Show at last year’s Chudleigh’s. It was the first time one of her dogs had received the honour. Her hounds had won their division many times, of course, but Best in Show was the grand champion, the competition where all of the divisional winners went head to head.
There had been whispers that she had only won because of Becca Finchley’s absence from the show that year. It was true Roberta had always felt miffed that the woman’s husband was a judge. Even though Sandon Finchley hadn’t overseen his wife’s categories, it just hadn’t seemed fair, really. But how people could suggest such cruel things, Roberta couldn’t understand. She’d won Best in Show because Citrine was magnificent and Roberta was the most dedicated breeder in the country and now she had her heart set on backing up with a second crown. On top of everything else that had happened to the Finchleys last year, while Becca was in hospital her dogs had been caught up in one of the largest kennel thefts in the country, so the poor woman hadn’t had a single dog to show even if she’d wanted to.
Roberta picked up a toothbrush and some paste. ‘You love having your teeth brushed, don’t you?’ she said as she pressed the button and the hound opened her mouth. The device hummed away for a pre-programmed three minutes after which Citrine lapped some water from a ceramic dish the woman placed in front of her. Citrine was the daughter of Roberta’s first champion, Emerald, who now sat pride of place in a silver urn on the mantle above the fireplace in the master bedroom. The past year had been a roller-coaster in the Dankworth household. From the highs of Citrine winning Best in Show to the sudden death of Roberta’s beloved Emerald, the year couldn’t have been any starker in contrast.
Emerald’s death had shattered Roberta, who had insisted on a full funeral and wake. It had been a dark time in the Dankworth household, quite literally with Roberta and the dogs wearing only black for months. Barry had begun to worry that his wife was never going to smile again and called in a grief counsellor to help her to process her emotions. It turned out they were all depressed – Roberta and the dogs. Things had taken an upward turn, though, when Roberta received the phone call from the producers of Dog Days, saying they were planning to feature her and her hounds in a special series. From that moment on, life had been full steam ahead again. It was fortunate that they had already purchased their new home, though the plans for the doghouse went from practical to palatial overnight. Barry had almost fainted when he got the bill for the fit-out, but there had been no point in arguing. If that was what his wife wanted, he knew he’d do himself no favours to deny her.
‘Are you here, Roberta?’ Barry called as he pushed open the front door to the Poochie Palace. The place was laid out with a sitting room at the front, where the dogs could socialise and watch their television. There were also hundreds of photographs of Roberta and her children, mostly with them dressed in matching outfits. Adjacent to the room was a kitchen, complete with food-preparation area, two enormous refrigerators stocked with fillet steak, salmon and free-range chicken, a sink and a dishwasher. Beyond that were six individual rooms containing oversized beds, pillows and fluffy duvets. Roberta had a bedroom for herself too, in case she needed to stay overnight. At the rear of the building was the grooming salon and a walk-in wardrobe for all the dogs’ accessories, outfits and toys. Outside, a covered veranda, which overlooked a sprawling exercise yard and a lap pool, housed day beds for each dog.
Barry walked through the central hallway to the rear of the building. ‘She’s looking good,’ he said, stroking Citrine’s back. Farrah sat up and began to yap at the man. Barry turned and put his finger to his lips to shush the little creature.
‘Good? Is that all you can say?’ Roberta pouted.
‘She’s beautiful, Roberta – stunning, in fact,’ Barry tried again, overcompensating horribly. ‘I think she’s a shoo-in for Best in Show.’
Roberta rolled her eyes at him. ‘Stop going on, Barry. Where have you been, anyway?’
‘I’ve got some very interesting news. Chudleigh’s is going to be held here in Winchesterfield.’
‘No, it’s not,’ Roberta said firmly. She finished buffing Citrine’s nails and retrieved a bottle of clear polish from the drawer. ‘It’s in Downsfordvale.’
‘Well, it was supposed to be, but it’s been moved this morning,’ Barry said. He enjoyed knowing something that his wife didn’t for a change.
‘Who told you that?’ Roberta asked, refusing to look up from her task. She was very careful not to get any polish on Citrine’s fur.
‘I popped in to borrow a drill from Reg Parker and Myrtle came out all abuzz about having just been contacted by the mayor,’ the man explained. ‘I told her that, if she needed, I could help out and you might be able to offer some advice too.’
Roberta’s head snapped up. ‘Why would you do that?’
‘I just thought …’
Roberta looked back at the dog’s claw and realised that she’d accidentally painted the tip of Citrine’s paw. ‘Look what you’ve made me do. You don’t think, Barry. That’s the problem. I don’t have time to help that bossy woman. I have preparations to make and we have to practise. You know what it’s like – I’ll be out here sixteen hours a day. You don’t get to be Chudleigh’s Best in Show without putting in the work.’
The man grimaced. ‘Sorry, it’s just that there’s no one in the village who has more experience with dog shows than you.’
‘Of course there’s not, but I don’t have time. Sounds like the whole thing is going to be a disaster, anyway. You can’t organise Chudleigh’s at the last minute. Have they thought about where they’re going to accommodate everyone and how they’re going to cater for it?’
Barry tried hard not to smirk. Now that he’d told his wife what was going on, he knew that she wouldn’t be able to help herself.
Caprice Radford carefully snibbed the lock behind her as she entered the flat. She shivered as she hurried across the sparsely furnished s
itting room and past the kitchenette. The place was silent apart from the creaks and groans of the timbers and the odd neighing and nickering of a pony down below. Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed an old electric coil heater and thought of using it to warm the place up a little. She walked into the bathroom and pulled aside the shower curtain. ‘You’ll need to wake up, little man,’ she said.
The creature was curled into a tight ball, trembling like a half-set blancmange.
‘What’s the matter?’ Caprice picked him up and realised that his fur was still soaked from the bath she’d given him that morning. He was freezing. She’d towelled him off as best she could but, without the aid of a hair dryer, it was impossible to get him completely dry. She set him back down and raced into the bedroom, where she had found the towels the night before. She snatched another two from the cupboard and fled back to the pup. Gathering him up in her arms, she wrapped the towels around his shivering body.
The creature whimpered and burrowed into the folds.
‘Are you hungry?’ Caprice asked. She reached into her pocket and pulled out a bread roll she’d saved from lunch.
The pup sniffed the food, then turned its head away. Its high-pitched squeaks were growing louder and louder.
‘Shush, be quiet or someone will hear you,’ Caprice pleaded. No matter how much she cuddled him, his shuddering wouldn’t stop. ‘It’s all right,’ she cooed. ‘I’ll put the heater on.’
Caprice placed the pup onto the threadbare couch and unwound the frayed cord on the electric heater under the window. She glanced around for somewhere to plug it in and discovered a socket just behind the old television set. Within minutes the coils began to glow.
The girl sat back on the floor beside the pup, enjoying the warmth. ‘That’s better now, isn’t it?’
The pup looked up at her with his big brown eyes. A few minutes later, his nose twitched and she felt around for the bread roll. Before long he’d gobbled it down and was crying for more.
‘Hello Mr Charles!’ Alice-Miranda waved to the gardener, who was up a ladder trimming a hedge opposite the stables.
‘Afternoon, girls,’ he called back.
‘That’s exciting news about the dog show,’ Alice-Miranda said.
The man grinned. ‘I don’t know if I’m excited or terrified, lass. I just hope that all those pooches get along.’
‘It was fun when I went with my mum,’ Millie said, ‘although I do remember one very bolshy sausage dog that kept on trying to eat the tails of the big dogs. Eventually, this Great Dane turned around and opened his mouth and the sausage dog’s whole head disappeared.’
Charlie cringed. ‘Oh, I don’t like the sound of this.’
Alice-Miranda’s eyes widened. ‘My goodness, what happened then?’
‘The dachshund’s owner screamed and people came running from everywhere. I remember the handler of the Great Dane just telling him calmly to spit it out. There was a horrible hoicking noise and out popped the sausage dog, covered in slime. It was gross but it could have been much worse, I guess,’ Millie said.
‘It certainly could have,’ Charlie agreed.
Following Miss Grimm’s thrilling announcement, the two girls had rushed to get changed into their jodhpurs and boots and Alice-Miranda had located the beautiful box of Fanger’s Chocolate that she’d bought for Miss Fayle and Mrs Sykes.
‘Is Elsa around?’ Alice-Miranda asked.
‘No, she’s busy with her studies today. I’ll feed the ponies when I’m finished here, unless you girls would like to give me a hand. Millie, I could let Miss Grimm know that you’ve been awfully helpful and perhaps she’ll give you Sunday afternoon off,’ he said with a wink.
The girl smiled. ‘Sounds like a plan to me. We’re on our way to see Miss Hephzibah and Miss Henrietta for half an hour, so we’ll take care of everything when we get back.’
‘Rightio.’ The man waved goodbye and continued with his pruning.
Millie charged into the stables with its smell of dust and manure, lucerne and molasses. ‘Hey, fatso,’ she called to Chops, who was dozing with his head over his stall door. She walked into the tack room and took the pony’s bridle from its hook on the wall.
Bonaparte spotted his mistress and whinnied loudly.
‘Sorry, Bony, no treats for you,’ Alice-Miranda said. She laughed as the pony shook his head up and down as if to disagree. The girl located Bonaparte’s bridle and grabbed her saddle too, taking them both over to the pony’s stall.
There was a loud thump from upstairs.
Millie looked up at the timber ceiling and frowned. ‘Seriously, are those mice having a party?’
The girl hitched Chops’s reins to his saddle and left him standing in his stall while she scurried to the staircase at the end of the building. Alice-Miranda was attempting to tighten Bonaparte’s girth strap but the pony was doing his best impersonation of a bloated beer belly and she could barely get it to the first notch.
‘Breathe in, please,’ she begged, but Bony clearly didn’t feel like going anywhere this afternoon.
Millie reached the upstairs landing and turned the handle. ‘That’s weird – the door’s locked,’ she said.
‘Maybe Mr Charles decided it would be better not to leave it open,’ Alice-Miranda called back.
Millie shrugged and thumped down the stairs.
Inside the flat, Caprice held her breath. When she was convinced she could hear whoever it was walking away, she exhaled and carried on with her search for food. She opened the last cupboard door and came face to face with the twitching nose of a tiny brown fieldmouse.
Caprice squealed, then clamped her hand over her mouth. The mouse took one look at her and scampered away.
In the sitting room the pup had managed to free himself from the towels and padded out to the kitchenette. His wet nose touched Caprice’s leg and she leapt into the air.
‘What are you doing in here?’ she berated the creature. ‘You’re supposed to be keeping warm by the heater.’
The puppy looked up at her and began to whimper.
‘I’ve already told you I don’t have anything more for you to eat. There’s nothing in here apart from disgusting mice. Hey, what’s that smell?’
Caprice sniffed the air. She spun around to see white smoke rising from the pile of towels in front of the heater. A small flame flickered to life. Caprice froze and the puppy ran away into the bedroom.
‘Come back!’ Caprice yelled, chasing after it as the flames licked the bottom of the curtains.
Bonaparte’s nostrils flared and he kicked up at his belly.
‘What’s the matter with you, mister?’ Alice-Miranda said. She gave him a pat and tried again to tighten the strap. In the box next to him, Chops whinnied loudly.
Millie opened her pony’s stall door and grabbed his reins. Chops’s eyes darted all over the place and he stomped on the ground. ‘Stop that,’ she said.
‘I hope Bony hasn’t given himself another stomach-ache,’ Alice-Miranda said. ‘There’s a lot of sweet clover in the field at the moment and you know what a greedy-guts he is.’ Her pony was susceptible to bouts of colic, usually brought on by a visit to a vegetable patch and his particular predilection for cabbages, though he had been known to get sick on lush grass too.
Buttercup was in the stall on the other side of Chops, pawing at the ground.
‘They’re all a bit nuts this afternoon,’ Millie said. There were three more horses in the stables whinnying and thumping about.
Alice-Miranda raised her nose into the air. ‘Can you smell smoke?’
‘Maybe Charlie has a bonfire in the garden somewhere,’ Millie said.
Alice-Miranda inhaled deeply. ‘No, it smells different to that.’
Out of nowhere, a bloodcurdling scream echoed overhead. ‘Fire!’ a girl shouted. ‘Help!’
‘There’s someone in the flat!’ Millie exclaimed. She immediately flew into action, pushing Chops back into his stall and slamming the door.
Alice-Miranda left Bonaparte and fled upstairs with Millie right behind her. She tried the handle but it wouldn’t budge.
‘Help me!’ the girl shrieked on the other side, pounding the door.
Alice-Miranda’s eyes widened. ‘It’s Caprice,’ she gasped. She was about to race downstairs in search of a spare key when the door burst open and Caprice flew out, coughing and sputtering. A pall of thick smoke billowed onto the landing.
Spotting a fire extinguisher outside the office, Millie shoved Caprice out of the way and dashed down to get it.
Alice-Miranda looked at Caprice, whose face was blackened with ash and streaked with tears. ‘Go let the horses out and get Mr Charles,’ she said, before covering her mouth and nose and running into the flat.
Caprice stumbled down the steps as Millie wrenched the extinguisher out of its bracket and charged back upstairs.
‘Alice-Miranda, where are you?’ Millie shouted, choking on the toxic grey smoke.
‘In here!’ Alice-Miranda ran into the sitting room to find the curtains ablaze. She fled through the smoke to the kitchenette, where an old plastic tub was sitting in the sink. She quickly filled it with water and raced back to throw it on the flames.
Millie appeared beside her with the fire extinguisher. ‘How do you do this again?’ she said. Panic was beginning to take hold as she fiddled with the top of the metal handle.
‘Release the pin,’ Alice-Miranda yelled, running back to the kitchen for more water.
Millie felt for the pin and pulled hard. ‘Got it!’ she cried out.
Alice-Miranda dumped another bucket over the flames, then threw the container to the ground. ‘You take the hose and I’ll press,’ she shouted above the crackling and hissing. Her eyes were bleary with tears and they felt as if they were being stung by a swarm of angry bees.
Alice-Miranda to the Rescue Page 6
