by Eve Titus
“We continued on to the darkroom without you,” George told Basil. “But when we got there, we found no way in.”
I blinked in surprise, wondering if he was joking. “But we’re mice,” I said with a half laugh. “We can get in anywhere!”
Elwood shook his head grimly. “Not that darkroom,” he told me. “Those royal photographs are so important to the prince that the photographer is taking no chances of having them ruined by a stray bit of light. He’s blocked every last nook and cranny so that not even a cockroach could squeeze in!”
13
The Darkroom
I GLANCED AT BASIL IN alarm. But he seemed unsurprised by the bad news. “I expected that this might happen,” he said calmly. “But no human room is completely mouseproof. We’ll have to search harder for a way in, that’s all.”
He enlisted the older teens—Marek, Clara, Pavla, and Hugo—to help, along with Elwood and George. “Be careful,” the duke said as we set off. “The humans are frantically preparing for tonight’s ball—they won’t be watching where they step.”
“And they’ll have little patience for mice, should they spot you,” his wife added. “They won’t want anything to spoil the big night.”
I nodded, realizing that the ball was only hours away by now. We would have to work fast—if it wasn’t already too late!
“What if the photographer is already developing the plates?” I asked Basil as we hurried along.
Marek heard me. “He isn’t,” he said. “At least not as of an hour ago. I think the humans want to take another photograph or two first.”
“Good,” Basil said. “But there’s no time to waste. Let’s move faster!”
We obeyed, speeding through the house as quickly as possible—though we did bypass the shortcut through the prince’s study this time!
Finally we reached the darkroom. As the others had warned, it seemed airtight. “Now what?” George wondered helplessly.
Basil glanced at the teens. “You’re young, sharp-eyed, and resourceful,” he said. “Find me a way in.”
I had my doubts about this plan, which seemed like no plan at all. But the teens set off eagerly, and within moments there was a shout.
“I found it!” Hugo cried, hanging from the molding halfway up a corner of the wall. “Look—a pipe leading right into the darkroom!”
“Good work, lad,” Basil said. “It looks like a ventilation pipe of some sort.”
I climbed up to examine it. “It’s barely big enough for a mouse to squeeze through,” I pointed out. “We’ll never be able to bring out that photographic plate this way.”
Basil shrugged. “Then we’ll have to break it instead. I’ll need . . . hmm, perhaps three of you to come with me to help push it off the table.”
“I’ll go!” Elwood volunteered at once.
“Me too,” Clara said.
Marek shook his head. “You’re not strong enough,” he told her. “Stay here—I’ll go instead.”
Clara frowned. “Who says I’m not strong enough?”
“I do,” Basil interrupted. “I’m sorry, miss, but you’re the smallest of all of us. Marek shall accompany me, along with Elwood and Dawson.”
Clara looked ready to argue, but Basil didn’t wait around to hear it. The four of us were soon crawling through the tight pipe into the darkroom, leaving George, Hugo, Pavla, and Clara behind to keep watch.
The place was well named. Even though mice can see better in the dark than humans, I was hard-pressed to see much at all at first. But my eyes adjusted quickly, and I could make out the dimensions of a small, narrow room. There was a high counter along one wall with a chair before it. Upon the countertop were several bins and dishes, though I didn’t focus on those, having eyes only for a stack of glass plates on the floor near the door.
Elwood saw them too. “Oh no!” he exclaimed. “The plates are on the floor!”
“Now what can we do?” I said, for our plan had relied upon gravity to help us break the plate by pushing it from a high place onto the hard floor.
“Maybe we should call the others in,” Marek suggested. “With all of us helping, we might be able to carry it up to the countertop. . . .”
Just then the door opened, allowing in a dazzling shaft of light from the hallway outside. Half-blinded by the sudden brightness, we scurried to hide behind a box.
The photographer entered, switched on a dim gas light, and closed the door behind him. Then he reached for the top plate on the stack and lifted it up, away, out of our sight on the counter above.
“He must be starting the development process,” Elwood hissed. “We’re out of time!”
Marek peered at the stack of plates. “At least he didn’t begin with the photograph we’re in,” he whispered. “It’s fourth in the stack, I think.”
“What should we do now, Basil?” I whispered fearfully, hoping the photographer didn’t shift his position and spot us.
Basil looked thoughtful in the dim, flickering light. “Go outside, Dawson. Take the others with you. I’ve just concocted a plan B.”
“Really?” My heart leaped with hope. “What is it?”
“There’s no time to explain.” Basil glanced around at the three of us. “And hold on—actually, I’ll need one mouse to stay and assist me.”
I expected him to choose me, but instead he pointed at the young Bohemian prince. “Marek, you stay,” he ordered. “Dawson and Elwood, go on—and tell the others we’ll join you in a few minutes.”
I did as he said, feeling perplexed and slightly insulted—but hopeful that, once again, the great Basil of Baker Street would somehow find a way to triumph in the face of a seemingly hopeless challenge. . . .
14
The Royal Ball
A COUPLE OF HOURS LATER, I still wasn’t sure whether or not Basil had pulled it off. He and Marek had emerged from the pipe after about twenty minutes, looking confident but refusing to tell the rest of us a thing.
“Don’t worry, Dawson,” Basil had told me. “You’ll find out what we did soon enough—and we’ll all find out whether it worked.”
That didn’t ease my mind much. But I had little choice but to wait and wonder.
Soon it was time for the human ball to begin. We mice hid in the ballroom wall and watched as the humans swept in, dressed in their fancy clothes and laughing and talking more loudly than usual. Cecil was there too—someone had even knotted a jaunty bow tie around his furry neck, which he scratched at occasionally but seemed otherwise too lazy to worry about.
The band struck up a lively tune, and the humans began to dance. Then Pes raced in, barking loudly, as usual. Cecil stiffened, then escaped the dog by jumping atop one of the small tables set around the edges of the room.
“Dash it all,” the duke exclaimed. “There goes any hope of sneaking out and helping ourselves to the refreshments.”
I nodded, disappointed, since I’d barely recovered from my long bout of hunger after my interrupted breakfast. But the royal mice had brought along plenty of refreshments of their own, and soon we were all enjoying tasty cheese and other delicacies.
Outside, the human royals began raising their glasses to toast the visit. We did the same.
“We’ll miss having you around,” the duke told the Bohemian mouse king fondly. “I hope you’ll come back to visit soon.”
“I hope so too.” The king nibbled a bit of cracker. “I wonder if the humans feel the same.”
The duke peered out through the hidey-hole. “They appear fond enough of one another, despite the presence of that infernal canine.”
I had to agree. I expected the prince and his family would indeed miss their charming, worldly visitors—just as the British mice of the house would miss their Bohemian counterparts.
Well, most of them would, anyway . . . At that moment I caught a glimpse of Clara and Marek. They were a little way down the narrow corridor, staring at each other with a tense look about them.
But I had little time to won
der what they were arguing about this time, for the duke let out a cry. “They’re about to reveal the photos!”
I clustered at the hidey-hole with the others, holding my breath. The Prince of Wales had just stepped to the center of the room. He stood smiling, facing the visiting Bohemian monarch.
“Your attention, please,” the prince called out. “I have something special to present to our esteemed guests—a memento suited to the honor of their visit.”
He gestured to someone off to the side, and the photographer stepped forward holding a stack of framed photographs.
The humans oohed and aahed as he held them up one by one, with the prince offering jocular comments on each captured moment. Finally he reached the family photo—the one we’d spent so much time and effort trying to prevent from being developed. What had Basil done?
When the photographer held up that photo, a gasp went up from the humans—and from us mice as well. For there, smudging half the photo, was a paw print!
“I’m sorry, sire,” the photographer said. “That paw mark was on the plate. There was nothing I could do to salvage the rest of the photo.”
“Ah,” the duke said, turning to smile at Basil. “He couldn’t salvage the rest—namely, the part featuring our mischievous offspring!”
Basil winked, leaving little doubt that he was wholly responsible for the sabotage. I let out a breath of relief, as always wondering why I ever doubted my friend—for had he ever let me, or one of his clients, down?
Meanwhile, the humans were still reacting to the shock. “Cecil!” the prince’s wife, Princess Alexandra of Denmark, exclaimed loudly. “Naughty cat—did you do that?”
“Unobservant humans,” Basil muttered under his breath. “Surely they must realize—”
Before he could finish, one of the prince’s siblings, Princess Helena, spoke up. “It wasn’t Cecil,” she said. “There are claw marks clearly visible on the print. See? And cats retract their claws, while dogs cannot.”
At that nearly everyone present turned to stare at Pes, who was sniffing around for crumbs of food on the floor. “Pes!” the human King of Bohemia roared. “That blasted mutt . . .” He went on for some time in his native language, while Prince Leo looked sullen. But the upshot was that Pes was blamed for the crime and banished to Leo’s room for the remainder of the visit. What’s more, the adult Bohemians insisted that the troublesome dog be confined for the journey home as well—to the great relief of the Bohemian mice.
After that the party continued. With Pes absent, we were able to sneak out to sample the human food—a fine way to celebrate Basil’s successful photo sabotage!
Speaking of which, he finally filled us in on the details of how he’d done it, though I confess that I had little understanding of modern photography and didn’t retain much of the information. But I understood enough to know that he and Marek—who had much more intimate knowledge of the dimensions of Pes’s paws, as well as the location of the young mice in the photo—had somehow smudged out the real images with the fake paw print, finishing only moments before the photographer reached down to grab the plate and begin the development process.
“Genius!” the duke said, giving Basil a hearty slap on the back. “I’m glad I called you in, Basil.”
“I am too, Your Grace,” Basil said with a slight bow. “It’s an honor to be of use to the royal family.”
I didn’t hear whatever Basil said next, as my attention was caught by the sight of Marek stepping over to join Clara in a quiet corner of the space. He was holding a delectable bit of cake, stolen from the party outside, which he offered to her. But she merely turned away, and I thought I could see tears in her eyes.
“Spying on the youth, Dawson?” Basil said in my ear, startling me.
I jumped and turned with a chuckle. “Perhaps a bit,” I admitted. “But I’m concerned, Basil. Why do those two dislike each other so much?” I gestured toward the pair in question.
Basil glanced at them, then smiled. “Ah, Dawson,” he said. “Don’t you see it? I’ve had a suspicion all along, of course, but now it’s so clear. . . .”
“What?” I was perplexed as to what he was talking about.
Instead of answering, he turned and called for attention. “Please, all of you,” he said. “There’s something I need to tell you. Something important . . .”
15
An Event to Celebrate
AS THE OTHERS GATHERED AROUND, Basil finally revealed the secret he’d discovered. “It’s Clara and Marek,” he said, pointing to the pair, who looked surprised. “Can’t you see it? They’re in love!”
There were gasps from all around—none louder than that emitted by Clara herself. “How did you know?” she blurted out. She rounded on Marek. “Did you tell him?”
But Marek seemed as shocked as anyone. “No!” he exclaimed. “You made me promise not to breathe a word. And I would never break a promise to you.”
Now I saw it! How could I have missed it before? As Marek gazed longingly at Clara, it all became as plain as the whiskers on my face. They were, indeed, in love!
“We didn’t want anyone to know,” Marek explained to the group. “What is the point, after all? It can never work out. She lives here in England, and I . . .” He let out a long sigh. “I must soon return to far-off Bohemia.”
“What?” Marek’s father roared. A huge smile broke out across his face. “Are you a complete fool, my boy? Why should distance be of any concern?”
“Yes,” Basil put in. “The human royal families intermarry frequently—just look at the prince himself and his royal wife, who was born in far-off Denmark.”
The Queen of Bohemia nodded. “Why should mice be any different?” she said. “This is wonderful news!”
“Yes,” the duke added. “And the perfect excuse for many more visits between our families!”
“You must come to Bohemia next,” the king insisted, bowing to the duke and duchess. “It will be our honor to host you.”
There came many more words after that, but in summary, the parents were delighted, along with the rest of the family. They insisted that Clara and Marek share the next dance, and the young couple did so, still looking a little stunned—but also blissfully happy.
“And that’s another case closed,” Basil commented, looking pleased with himself as we watched. And who could blame him? For who else but the world-renowned Basil of Baker Street could play matchmaker, photographer’s assistant, and detective all in one day?
• • •
Very late that night, Basil and I made our way through a slumbering London toward home. The royals had offered us lodging for the night, but I had patients to see the next day, and Basil was eager to be back in Holmestead as well—probably because Mr. Holmes was due home early the next morning.
“Won’t you miss the luxury of Marlborough House, though?” I asked him as we walked, thinking back over the past two days’ adventures.
Basil shrugged. “No need to miss it, Dawson,” he said, looking sly. “We’ll be returning soon enough.”
“We will?” I said in surprise. “How so, my friend?”
Basil smiled. “Marek’s father, the king, stopped me on my way out just now,” he said. “Make sure your best suit is pressed, Dawson—because very soon we’ll be attending a royal wedding!”
I was too surprised to answer. But in any case, Basil gave me little opportunity before he spoke again.
“Now, let’s shake a paw, Dawson,” he said, hurrying forward across a cobbled street. “I want to get a good night’s rest before Mr. Holmes returns. I’m looking forward to hearing about his latest escapades.”
I had little doubt of that—though I also had little doubt that even the great man’s adventures could hold a candle to those of myself and my dear friend Basil of Baker Street!
About the Authors
Eve Titus (1908–2002) was the author of many children’s books, including those about the French cheese-tasting mouse Anatole. Of Basil of Baker
Street, Adrian M. Conan Doyle, son of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, wrote to the author, “It is simply a wonderful creation, and I can assure you that my father would have reveled in every page.” The book was also made into a Disney movie, The Great Mouse Detective, in 1986. Numerous Sherlockian collectors prize the Basil mysteries, which include Basil of Baker Street, Basil and the Cave of Cats (originally published as Basil and the Pygmy Cats), Basil in Mexico, Basil in the Wild West, and Basil and the Lost Colony.
Cathy Hapka has written many books for young readers. She lives on a small farm in Lincoln University, Pennsylvania.
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READ MORE ABOUT
Basil’s adventures!
Basil of Baker Street
Basil and the Cave of Cats
Basil in Mexico
Basil in the Wild West
Basil and the Lost Colony
Basil and the Big Cheese Cook-Off
This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and events are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
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First Aladdin hardcover edition May 2019
Text copyright © 2019 by Estate of Eve Titus
Illustrations copyright © 2019 by David Mottram
Also available in an Aladdin paperback edition.
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