by Kaye Umansky
Booboo liked being in his stable. It was warm and dry, and there was plenty to eat. There had been some sort of disturbance in the courtyard earlier. A loud bump, which had made the ground shake. Whatever it was, it was enough to make the groomer go running off to have a look. He hadn’t returned, so Booboo was all alone. Hay, peace, and quiet. All was well in Flying Horse World. Until he saw the cat.
He knew that cat.
Booboo disliked all cats, but he particularly hated this cat. He had had dealings with this cat long ago in the dim, distant past. Booboo clearly remembered kicking it once, very hard, when it was little more than a kitten. It had come running merrily into the stable and had started jumping around his back legs. So Booboo had kicked it, sending it hurtling through the air into a pile of something you find in stables that is very nasty indeed.
The cat was older now, of course. Older, bigger, and a lot more ugly. Booboo hadn’t seen the cat for a long, long time and had thought it was gone forever. And now it had come back to haunt him.
The cat was sitting in the doorway, carefully observing him. There was something about the unblinking yellow gaze that Booboo didn’t like. Something knowing.
The cat stared.
Booboo showed the whites of his eyes and tossed his mane.
The cat still stared.
Booboo pawed the ground with his front hoof.
More staring from the cat.
Booboo gave a warning whinny and rustled his furled wings.
Slowly, without tension or hurry, the cat stood up. For the first time, Booboo noticed that there was something trapped under its right paw. Something small and wiggly. Was it? Could it be … ?
A mouse!
Everything happened very fast. There was a flash of fur, and suddenly the cat was on top of the rail that ran around Booboo’s stall. The mouse was dangling upside down from its mouth on the end of a long, thin tail.
The cat opened its jaws. Deliberately, accurately, and with a great sense of purpose, it dropped the mouse into Booboo’s manger, where it began running around under the hay letting out a series of small, surprised squeaks.
The cat watched Booboo’s reaction for a long moment. There was a lot of reaction to watch. Panicked whinnying, mad eye-rolling, rearing, and crashing, causing splintered wood to fly through the air. It was all there.
When the cat had seen enough, it dusted off its two front paws, jumped down, and strolled out of the stable, smirking.
Jimbo Squint came down the long stone passage carrying a tray. On it were two tin plates, each containing a small crust of stale bread and two mugs of water. He came to a halt outside the cell containing Wilf, who was leaning against the bars, despondently picking splinters from his hands.
“Stand back,” ordered Jimbo. “Right back, against the wall. I’m pushin’ yer food under the door.”
“What is it?” asked Wilf, hopefully. He hadn’t eaten a thing since the sugar lumps of the day before, and he was ravenous.
“Bread and water, like she ordered.”
“Yummy,” said Wilf. “Hear that, Clover? I hope you’re hungry! We’ve got bread and water!”
“What, no cake?” called Clover. If Wilf could stay up beat, so could she.
“I’ll ask. My friend’s just wondering if there’s any cake?”
“Preferably one with a file in, please,” called Clover.
“She’d like one with a file in,” Wilf told Jimbo. “Please. If it’s not too much trouble.”
“Well, yer friend can just shut up,” growled Jimbo. “Any more cheek from either of you and you won’t get nothin’ at all, so be warned.”
“Is that you, Jimbo?” The door to the guard room flew open, and Humperdump peered out. “I been waitin’ for you.”
“I’m comin’, boss. Just feedin’ the prisoners.”
“Well, do it quick, then come in ‘ere. I needs yer help. And shut the door behind you, I’m sick of hearin’ their backtalk.”
Humperdump retreated back into the guard room and sat at his desk. He had given up on filling in forms. Jimbo could do it later. Right now, he had something more important on his mind. Before him was a blank sheet of paper. He was about to write the next love note to Miss Fly.
Jimbo entered, closing the door behind him.
“Sit down, Jimbo,” ordered Humperdump. “I want to get this note writ, and it’s gotta be good.”
“I thought you was givin’ up on ’er, boss.”
“I’m givin’ ’er one last chance. I’m gonna write down that poem o’ yours. Let’s get crackin’. ’Ow’d it go again?”
“Roses is red …”
“Slow down, slow down. Which one’s the R again? Is it the straight line with the roundy bit at the top an’ the extra little leg … ?”
Mesmeranza stood at the window of her turret room sipping champagne.
“A toast, Fly!” she cried. “Here’s to me finally settling old scores!”
“I haven’t got a glass,” said Miss Fly, who was still in her old brown dressing gown. Her allergy wasn’t quite so bad this morning. The trip down to the courtyard to view the newly arrived cottage seemed to have cleared her head. Her M’s were still missing, but her N’s, T’s and P’s were back in action, which was a relief.
“I’m well aware of that. I’m not going to waste good champagne on you. Not after all your negative remarks and sniffing and eyebrow raising. I expect you’re feeling a bit silly now. Are you feeling silly, Fly?”
“I’b feeling chilly,” said Miss Fly. “I’d like to get dressed, if you don’t bind.”
“I do mind. I haven’t finished with you. I want you to order me a celebration dinner. Something with an apple in its mouth, tell Mrs. Chunk. And balloons. The musicians are to compose a song praising me, and the footmen are to choreograph a small ballet in my honor. I shall watch it over coffee.”
“Is that all?”
“No. Before the light goes, I shall want you to paint a picture of me posing next to the cottage looking youthfully radiant.”
“What? But I can’t paint!”
“Then learn, quickly.”
“But I haven’t got any paints.”
“Then order some. A simple watercolor will do, and it had better be good. I need to choose which gown to wear. I can’t decide between red satin or green velvet. I shall consult the Mirror.”
Mesmeranza finished her glass of champagne and poured herself another one.
“What about the poor little children?” asked Miss Fly.
“What about them?”
“Well, you’re not going to keep theb locked up forever, surely?”
“I don’t see why not.”
“But they’re children. Their fabilies will biss theb.”
“Too bad. They shouldn’t have stowed away in the cottage.”
“But it’s not right!” cried Miss Fly. “Putting innocent children down in the dudgeons. In the care of that horrible ban.”
“Who—Chunk?”
“Yes,” said Miss Fly. “Hib.”
“I can’t help noticing you have a bit of a thing about Chunk, Fly. Why is that?”
“I just don’t like hib,” mumbled Miss Fly, going pink.
“Any particular reason? Apart from him being fat, incompetent, lazy, and stupid?”
“If you bust know,” muttered Miss Fly, blushing scarlet, “he keeps sending be notes.”
“Sending you notes? What kind of notes?”
“Love notes,” admitted Miss Fly.
“He does?” Mesmeranza let out a little shriek of laughter. “Oh, haha! Will the wedding be soon, do you think, hahaha?”
“It’s not funny,” said Miss Fly, crossly. “It’s not funny, and he’s not fit to look after poor little children. It’s not right.”
“I’ll tell you what’s not right, Fly. What’s not right is your unhelpful attitude. Or your horrible old dressing gown or your shoes or that posse of stinking furballs you insist on keeping in your room.”
“By cats do not stink.”
“They most certainly do stink …”
And so it went on. Both of them were becoming so heated that they didn’t even notice the cat lurking in the shadow of the doorway.
It was Neville, of course. Neville, the cat genius, listening and learning and taking it all in. So much information. He would use it all.
Chapter Twenty-Four
The Dungeons Again
It was quiet in the castle kitchens. The breakfast rush hour was over, and Mrs. Chunk was enjoying a brief ten minutes with her feet up before starting lunch. There were clattering noises from the sinks at the far end, where the maids were finishing the dishes.
She sat at the table with a large mug of tea and a plate of biscuits. She was just about to sip when she felt herself being watched.
There was a cat in the doorway. A large, black cat with yellow eyes. One of Miss Fly’s, of course. It must have got itself locked out of her room and wandered down. Drawn by the smells, she supposed.
“Miaw?” said the cat, pleasantly.
“Well now,” said Mrs. Chunk. “What you doin’ down ’ere, puss?”
“Miaw,” said the cat. It stalked towards her and rubbed around her ankles.
“Lost, are you? You want some milk?”
Rather to her surprise, the cat—nodded. It did it enthusiastically, almost as though it was agreeing with her.
Mrs. Chunk reached down and scratched it behind an ear.
“You wait there and I’ll get a saucer,” she said. “Then I’ll get one of the maids to take you back up to Miss Fly. How’s that?”
She stood up, and immediately the cat jumped into the warm spot where she had been sitting.
“I expect you likes full cream, eh?” said Mrs. Chunk.
The cat nodded again. She noticed it looking keenly at the bucket of fish heads she kept in the corner.
“Fancy a fish head?” inquired Mrs. Chunk.
“Miaw,” agreed the cat. To her surprise, it sat back on its hindquarters and held up two paws.
“You want two?”
“Miaw miaw.”
Marveling, Mrs. Chunk hurried away to get a saucer. What an unusually clever cat. It was almost as though it could understand everything you said.
Down in the guard room, Humperdump threw down his pencil and sat back. It had taken some time to get Jimbo’s masterpiece committed to paper. He was sweating heavily, and he had broken two pencils, but it was done.
“That’s it!” said Humperdump, surveying his handiwork. “Roses is red, gray is the sky, cow pats is greeny brown, and I loves Miss Fly. And I’ve signed it, ‘Frum Yore Humpy.’ An’ I done three big crosses, fer kisses. If that don’t do the trick, I don’t know what will.”
“You done a great job, boss,” agreed Jimbo. “A whole four lines o’ poetry an’ it only took you a coupla hours to write down.”
“I couldn’t ‘ave done it without you, Jimbo. All that spellin’. All them good words. I dunno how you thinks of it.”
“Ah, that’s what I’m ‘ere for. Do all the work an’ come up with romantic poems in me spare time.”
“Well, I appreciates it. I just ’ope she does.”
“‘Course she will. I’ll take it up right away, shall I? Stick it under ’er door?”
“You do that, Jimbo. Take the master key and slip through the kitchens, it’ll be quicker. And don’t mess around this time. Give it to ‘er in person and wait for a reply. Tell ’er I’m pinin’ away an’ won’t rest till she’s mine. And tell mum I fancies pork chops for dinner.”
Outside the guard room, in the shadowy stone passage, Clover and Wilf stood at the bars of their separate cells. There was nothing to do but watch the flickering torches and listen to dripping noises. Time was passing slowly.
“Clover?” whispered Wilf.
“Yes?”
“What are you doing?”
“Nothing. Thinking how to get out of here.”
“Any ideas yet?”
“No.”
There was a short silence.
“Clover?”
“What?”
“Do you think Mrs. Eckles will rescue us?”
“I don’t see how. You heard Mesmeranza. She can’t get past the protection spells.”
There was another silence.
“Clover?”
“Yes?”
“We’re in real trouble, aren’t we?”
“Yes,” said Clover, with a sigh. “We are.”
She moved back from the bars and sat on the hard bench, staring down at the tin plate. The bread was so stale it had scratched her throat going down. Even the water was brackish, as though it had had things swimming in it.
The door of the guard room opened, and Jimbo Squint came scuttling out. In one hand he held a large brass key. In the other was a folded piece of paper.
“Push the plates and mugs under the door,” he ordered. “Then stand back. No sudden moves.”
In silence, Clover and Wilf did as they were told.
“What’s this?” jeered Jimbo. “No back chat? No funny remarks? Finally learnin’ a bit of respect, are we? That’s good. If yer very humble, you might get another crust for yer supper.”
He put the dishes on the tray, then hurried off along the passageway.
“I’d like to hit him with his tray,” said Wilf.
Back up in the kitchens, Neville had consumed two saucers full of milk and was now wolfing down his second fish head. Very tasty it was, too. The perfect combination of crunchy and slimy.
“My,” said Mrs. Chunk. “You was a hungry boy, wasn’t you? Made a bit of a mess, though.”
He had too. Despite his new brain, Neville still had his usual eating habits. Things tasted so much better when dragged off the plate, kicked around a bit, then eaten off the floor.
His ears pricked at the sudden sound of a key turning in a lock. A door in the far wall crashed wide open, and a small man stepped through, carrying a tray.
“’Ere you go, Mrs. Chunk,” said Jimbo. “I brought the tray back up.”
“Thanks, Mr. Squint. How’s things with you?”
“Not so bad, Mrs. Chunk. Bit of a ruckus this mornin’, wasn’t it? The cottage flyin’ in an’ that.”
“It was, Mr. Squint. Coulda knocked me down with a feather. I thought my Humpy did good, though. Very professional I thought he was.”
“He was, Mrs. Chunk. Did you proud.”
“Mind you, I do think them children should have had a proper breakfast. Bread and water, it don’t seem right. I mean, they’re still growing.”
“Her ladyship’s orders, Mrs. Chunk. Can’t go against ’em.”
“No,” sighed Mrs. Chunk. “Still. Kids need vegetables.”
“Well, I can’t stay here chattin’. I got a poem to deliver.”
“A poem?”
“Yep. From the boss to Miss Fly I helped him write it.”
“Well, that’s very kind of you, Mr. Squint. My Humpy’s always had trouble with words. Unlucky in love, bad at spellin’. Lovely little eater, though.”
“I know that, Mrs. Chunk. By the way, he says he fancies pork chops fer dinner.”
“He does?” cried Mrs. Chunk. “Then he shall have ‘em. They might take a while, though. Tell you what, leave the key in the lock, and when I get a minute I’ll head down with a plate o’ my apple turnovers. Just to keep him going.”
Jimbo hesitated. Both he and Humperdump had gotten a bit sloppy with security recently. They took their meals in the kitchen, and the steps up from the dungeon were steep enough without having to mess about with the door every time. Usually they didn’t bother and just left it ajar with the key in the lock.
“I ain’t supposed to, Mrs. Chunk,” said Jimbo, doubtfully. “Not now when there’s prisoners.”
“Oh, get along with you. Just a couple o’ kids. They’re shut up in cells, ain’t they? And Humpy’s down there guardin’ ‘em. I expect you’d like one o’ my turnovers, wouldn’t you?
Fresh-made this morning.”
“I would, Mrs. Chunk, I would,” said Jimbo. “All right, then, I’ll leave the key in the door. Don’t let nobody else go down, mind.”
“Course I won’t,” said Mrs. Chunk. “Oh, and while you’re about it, seeing as you’re going that way, can you take the cat back up?”
“What cat?”
Mrs. Chunk pointed to the chair.
“That c—oh. It’s gone. Funny it was there a minute ago.”
“There was a cat down here?”
“Yes. One of Miss Fly’s, I reckon. Must have got shut out.”
“Ah well,” said Jimbo. “It’ll find its own way back up, I ’spect.”
From his dark, greasy hiding place behind the cooker, Neville watched Jimbo vanish through the main door. He almost collided with a footman, who came hurrying in brandishing a piece of paper, which he presented to Mrs. Chunk.
“From Miss Fly,” announced the footman. “The menu for her ladyship’s dinner. Excuse me, I have to go and practice a ballet.”
“Ooh,” said Mrs. Chunk. “Something with an apple in its mouth. That’s gonna take awhile, I’d better get crackin’. Maisie! Flora! See what we got in the pantry, we got our work cut out for us!”
Her footsteps bustled away.
Neville saw his chance.
“Clover?” called Wilf.
“Yes?”
“Any ideas yet?”
“No. Just stop asking me, will you? If I think of anything, you’ll be the first to know.”
“All right,” said Wilf. “No need to be snippy I just thought we might come up with a plan if we talked about it.”
“What’s the point? We can talk all day and all night and next week and next month, but unless we can get hold of a key …”
“Shhhh!” hissed Wilf. “What’s that noise?”
“What?”
“That noise. Listen. Can’t you hear it?”
Clover listened. Sure enough, she could hear a faint sound. It was a sort of intermittent clinking. In between each clink, there was a short pause.
Clink-pause-clink-pause-clink-pause.
