Goldwhiskers

by Heather Vogel Frederick

  Oz’s mother pressed her lips together.

  ‘Stolen,’ said Oz’s father.

  The British soprano gasped. ‘No! What happened?’

  ‘Scotland Yard is on the case,’ Luigi Levinson continued. ‘Apparently there’s a jewel thief on the loose.’

  ‘The cat burglar!’ exclaimed Prudence Winterbottom. ‘I’ve been reading about him in the papers.’ She adjusted the tiara, and slanted a ferret-like glance at her jewellery-less American colleague. ‘Pity,’ she said smugly.

  Oz frowned. Clearly, Prudence Winterbottom didn’t think it was a pity at all.

  There was a barrage of blinding flashes as a horde of reporters spotted the divas and began snapping photos.

  ‘Is it true the two of you are rivals?’ demanded one, thrusting a microphone under the two women’s noses. ‘Can we look forward to a Christmas Eve battle of the sopranos?’

  ‘Rivals? Battle?’ Prudence Winterbottom laughed a fake tinkling laugh. ‘Whatever gave you that impression! Lavinia and I are the dearest of friends.’

  ‘That’s right,’ said Oz’s mother, with a bit more sincerity. ‘We’re here to sing together. It’s Christmas, after all.’

  Oz and DB were squeezed to the edge of the crowd as the reporters surged forward to follow the two opera stars inside.

  ‘Do all Americans wear such strange shoes with dinner jackets?’

  Oz whirled round. Priscilla Winterbottom was standing behind him, along with Nigel Henshaw. She smiled, and her sharp little ferret teeth gleamed in the distant flash from a camera. Amazing, thought Oz. Even Jordan and Tank on their best days didn’t have the kind of shark skills that Priscilla Winterbottom had. She’d managed to zero right in on his Achilles heel in two seconds flat. Make that Achilles shoe, he thought morosely, gazing down at his toes.

  ‘Put a sock in it, Prissy Slushbutt,’ said DB. ‘Nobody cares about Oz’s shoes.’

  Priscilla gaped at DB. Her cheeks flamed bright red. She opened her mouth to reply, then snapped it shut again. Grabbing the hapless Nigel Henshaw by his reed-like arm, she stuck her nose in the air and flounced off after her mother, dragging the conductor’s son with her.

  ‘Prissy Slushbutt!’ crowed Oz, slapping DB a high five. ‘I wish I’d thought of that!’

  DB looked pleased. ‘Winterbottom – Slushbutt. It’s a natural,’ she explained. ‘I’ve been waiting to spring it on her ever since this morning.’

  Oz gazed at his friend in admiration. DB was so much quicker on her feet than he was when it came to dealing with sharks. He made a mental note to himself for future reference – Anti-shark Tactics 101: a swift counterattack can be highly successful in repelling the foe.

  Dinner dragged on in a blur of toasts and speeches accompanied by more courses and silverware than Oz had ever seen in his life. (‘Why do we need seven forks?’ he whispered to DB at one point.) Priscilla Winterbottom, who was seated next to Nigel across the wide table, made a point of ignoring them, except to glare occasionally over her roast beef and Yorkshire pudding. After the remains of dessert (a spectacular Christmas trifle) were cleared away, the hired orchestra swung into a medley of up-tempo holiday tunes.

  Over at the head table, Mr Henshaw stood up and extended his hand to Oz’s mother. Luigi Levinson quickly stood up and did the same to Prudence Winterbottom. Around the room, chairs emptied as couples headed for the dance floor.

  ‘Come along, Nigel,’ ordered Priscilla Winter-bottom, pushing back her chair.

  Nigel wilted in his seat. Priscilla grabbed his ear and twisted it. ‘I said, come along!’

  The younger boy had no choice but to obey. As Priscilla dragged him on to the dance floor, DB leaned over to Oz. ‘That poor kid might as well have “shark bait” tattooed across his forehead,’ she said.

  Oz nodded in agreement.

  DB threw down her napkin. ‘Oh well, nothing we can do about it now,’ she said. ‘Time to go see the jewels.’

  Oz trotted after his classmate. Outside the banquet hall, a guard in a scarlet uniform – ‘He’s called a Yeoman Warder, or Beefeater,’ DB informed Oz – directed them across the courtyard to the Waterloo Barracks. They passed through the building’s heavy wooden doors, followed by the increasingly faint strains of ‘Rudolph the Red-nosed Reindeer’.

  ‘It’s kind of creepy in here, isn’t it?’ said DB, shivering slightly. The building’s stone walls and stone floor were as chilly as the night air.

  ‘No kidding,’ said Oz. ‘Where is everyone? You wouldn’t think we’d be the only ones who’d want to see the jewels, would you?’

  DB shrugged. ‘I guess everyone else would rather dance.’

  The two children followed the signs to the exhibit, pausing to watch a short video that explained some of the history behind the collection.

  ‘There they are!’ squealed DB as they entered the Jewel House. She raced over to the moving walkway. It whisked her towards the glass display case. Oz followed, nodding to the lone security guard who watched them from his post by the door. A heavy steel door, Oz noted. Nearly as thick as the stone walls.

  Oz’s eyes widened as the walkway carried him closer to the glass cases. DB was right; these weren’t just any old jewels. There were swords and sceptres, crowns and coronation finery, and gems the size of goose eggs. All of the glittering regalia was spread out before them in a breathtaking display. Even his mum’s rubies paled in comparison. So did Prudence Winterbottom’s diamonds.

  ‘Look!’ cried DB. ‘The Koh-i-Noor.’

  ‘The Koh-i-what?’ asked Oz, as they were carried slowly past an impressive crown trimmed in purple velvet and white ermine.

  DB pointed to the huge gem that adorned the front of it. ‘The Koh-i-Noor diamond,’ she said. ‘It means “mountain of light”. It was given to Queen Victoria in 1850. It’s over a hundred carats.’

  The walkway deposited them at the end of the display near the exit door. ‘Let’s go through again,’ urged DB, herding her friend back along the raised platform beside it.

  ‘Maybe we’re not supposed to,’ said Oz, glancing nervously at the guard.

  ‘It’s OK – nobody else is here.’

  Again and again the two allowed themselves to be carried past the display of jewels, as DB explained to Oz what he was looking at. ‘That’s the Sovereign’s Orb,’ she said, pointing to a golden ball topped with a diamond-encrusted cross. ‘And the Imperial State Crown. It’s got a ruby on it that’s one of the biggest in the world. And that’s the Sovereign’s Ring.’ It was the Koh-i-Noor, though, that drew her like a magnet. ‘It’s on the Queen Mother’s crown,’ she said. ‘Did you know it’s supposed to be cursed?’

  ‘The Queen Mother’s crown?’ said Oz in surprise.

  ‘No, you goof, the Koh-i-Noor,’ replied DB. ‘It brings misfortune or death to any male who wears it. Females are safe, though. That’s why it was made into a crown for a queen.’

  ‘Do you really think that’s true?’ Oz said, staring at the big diamond.

  DB shrugged. ‘Who knows?’

  ‘Can we go now? The guard’s gonna think we’re casing the joint,’ said Oz finally, after following DB past the display a dozen times.

  ‘This place? Come on, Oz, it’s like Fort Knox,’ said DB. She glanced over at the guard, who was pointedly checking his watch. ‘Maybe you’re right. It is nearly midnight. Your parents are probably wondering where we went. Once more and then we’ll go, OK?’

  The guard crossed his arms on his chest and scowled at them as they ran back for yet another pass.

  ‘We’re almost done!’ called DB. ‘Promise!’

  ‘What do you think something like that would be worth?’ asked Oz, peering closely at the Koh-i-Noor diamond as they approached it again.

  ‘Millions, I guess,’ said DB. ‘Maybe billions. I don’t know.’

  As the moving walkway conveyed them for the final time towards the Queen Mother’s crown, the lights overhead flickered. The walkway gave a small electronic whine. The guard loo
ked over at them and frowned. The lights flickered again, and the walkway slowly ground to a halt.

  ‘Oi!’ cried the guard. ‘Wot you kids up to over there?’

  ‘Nothing,’ DB called back.

  The lights flickered a third time and went out. The room was plunged into complete darkness.

  Oz had never experienced such darkness. The blackness that swallowed them was complete. Not a pinpoint of light shone anywhere. The room’s thick stone walls blocked everything out. It was like being in a cave.

  ‘Oi!’ cried the guard again. ‘Stay where you are!’

  Oz and DB heard the sound of his footsteps, and a grunt as he grappled with something on the wall. The guard’s walkie-talkie crackled to life. ‘Clive?’ said a voice. ‘Everything under control down there?’

  They heard the guard scrabble for his receiver. ‘Power went out,’ he reported. ‘Trying to locate the auxiliary.’

  Oz flinched as something brushed past his ankle. ‘What was that?’ he cried.

  ‘What was what?’ cried DB, clutching his arm.

  Something brushed past Oz’s other ankle. He shrieked. So did DB.

  ‘Oi, you lot!’ cried the guard. ‘I said don’t move!’

  There was a loud click – the guard throwing a switch, perhaps – but nothing happened. Another crackle from his walkie-talkie. ‘Any luck?’

  ‘Auxiliary’s not working either,’ the guard reported.

  ‘I’ll bring a torch,’ the voice on the walkie-talkie replied. ‘How many you got in there with you?’

  ‘Just a couple of kids.’

  ‘Right. Be along in a minute, then.’ The walkie-talkie crackled again, and went silent.

  ‘Where’d you kids go?’ demanded the guard.

  ‘Right here!’ DB replied. ‘We haven’t moved an inch!’

  Oz heard a tiny clink beside him. Or at least he thought he did. The hair on the back of his neck stood up. ‘What was that?’ he cried again.

  ‘What was what?’ cried DB, clutching his arm again.

  ‘Did you hear that?’

  ‘WHAT?’

  ‘Will you kids shut up! There’s no need to panic!’ shouted the guard, beginning to sound panicked.

  ‘Do you think this place is haunted?’ Oz whispered anxiously. ‘Maybe it’s the curse of the Koh-i-Noor.’

  ‘Oz, stop! You’re scaring me!’

  They heard the heavy tread of footsteps as the guard approached. ‘Wot you two nattering about, then?’ he asked.

  ‘Nothing,’ said Oz. A hand clamped down on his shoulder. He jumped.

  ‘There you are!’ the guard said in triumph. Relief too – Oz could hear it in his voice. The guard was as nervous as he was. Maybe this place really is haunted, Oz thought, as goosebumps crept up his arms.

  ‘Ouch,’ said DB. ‘That’s my hair.’

  ‘Sorry,’ said the guard. ‘You two stay right here by me. We’ll be safe together. They’re coming to fetch us any minute.’

  The seconds ticked by. Standing in the pitch-black, the only sound that of their own breathing, Oz tried not to think about the cursed diamond that lay just two feet away. Or the prisoners who had languished and expired here in the Tower. Or the torture chambers or –

  ‘Where are you?’ called a deep voice, and Oz jumped again. A torch’s beam pierced the darkness.

  ‘Over here!’ replied the guard named Clive. ‘On the walkway!’

  Light bounced off his glasses, and Oz blinked. ‘You kids all right?’ asked the deep voice.

  Oz and DB nodded.

  ‘How about you, Clive? Weren’t scared, were you?’ The other guard snickered, and Clive suddenly let go of Oz.

  ‘Nah,’ he replied, crossing the room to join his colleague.

  Oz saw the torch’s beam flicker along the wall, then settle on a large red switch. The guard with the deep voice threw it, but, as before, nothing happened. ‘Ned, fire up the emergency auxiliary in sector seven, would you?’ he said into his walkie-talkie.

  A few seconds later, the walkway whined back into life. It jerked forward, throwing Oz against DB. The two of them toppled over in a heap.

  ‘Oof,’ said DB.

  ‘Sorry,’ said Oz.

  Overhead, the lights flickered once, twice, then held. Oz and DB stood up and brushed themselves off.

  ‘You kids best be going,’ called Clive. ‘Party’s almost over.’

  ‘OK,’ Oz replied.

  ‘Better do a quick security check first,’ said the other guard, and began circling the room. ‘Everything looks fine to me.’

  ‘Me too,’ said Clive. He stepped onto the walkway and moved towards the jewels. ‘Nothing broken, nothing out of place.’ He froze. ‘Oi,’ he said weakly.

  ‘What?’ said the other guard. Clive pointed wordlessly at the display case.

  DB gasped, and this time Oz was the one to clutch her arm.

  The Koh-i-Noor had vanished.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  DAY TWO – TUESDAY 0600 HOURS

  ‘En garde!’

  Two mice – one white, one grey – circled each other warily. Each held a fencing foil (made from the tip of a broken knitting needle) at the ready in his paw. Each wore a fencing mask (cleverly fashioned from bits of mesh from an old screen door) that obscured his face.

  Clack-clack! Clack-clack! Clack-clack-clack-CLACK! The knitting-needle foils darted this way and that as the two thrust and parried, slashing at each other fiercely.

  ‘I have you now!’ crowed the white mouse, forcing his opponent into a corner.

  ‘Not so fast,’ puffed the other.

  As the white mouse moved to press his advantage, the grey mouse ducked and twirled, leaping nimbly out of reach. The white mouse whirled round, but it was too late. He froze as his opponent’s foil made one final thrust, stopping just a whisker’s width away from his throat.

  Both mice stood motionless for a moment; then the grey mouse removed his mask. ‘Well done, Mr Burner!’ said Julius Folger, head of Washington DC’s Spy Mice Agency. ‘I’m seeing much improvement in your skills.’ He patted his stomach, panting slightly. ‘And these dawn workouts aren’t doing my waistline any harm either.’

  Bunsen Burner, lab-mouse-turned-secret-agent, removed his mask as well. ‘Thought I had you at last,’ he said ruefully.

  ‘One of these days you will, if you keep practising,’ Julius replied. ‘Same time tomorrow, then?’

  Bunsen nodded in agreement. As they turned to go, the door to the fencing room flew open. A computer gymnast rushed in, clutching a scrap of paper in her paw.

  ‘Sorry to interrupt, sirs!’ she squeaked. ‘But this message just came in. It’s marked most urgent.’

  Julius scanned it, frowning.

  ‘It was encoded,’ the computer gymnast added. ‘Took us a few minutes to decipher. It’s from Glory Goldenleaf.’

  Bunsen’s pale ears pricked up. A message from Glory? Marked urgent? Was she in trouble? His nose turned an anxious shade of pink.

  ‘We managed to decipher everything but this last bit,’ the gymnast continued, tapping the bottom of the page with her paw. ‘We can’t work out what those Xs and Os are supposed to mean.’

  The tip of Bunsen’s nose deepened to scarlet. He knew exactly what those Xs and Os were: kisses and hugs. A secret message for him from his sweetheart.

  Julius Folger cleared his throat. ‘I see,’ he said, glancing over at Bunsen. ‘Well, don’t give it another thought, Miss Eiderdown. Thank you for your help.’ He turned to Bunsen as the small house mouse bustled out of the room. ‘Absence makes the paws grow fonder – eh, Mr Burner?’

  ‘Sorry, sir,’ mumbled Bunsen. Technically, agents weren’t supposed to include personal messages in official communiqués.

  ‘Well, I suppose I’m not such a fossil that I can’t recall those days myself,’ said Julius. ‘I remember one time, years ago, when Mrs Folger and I –’ He broke off and harrumphed again. ‘But enough of that foolishness.’ He looked down at the piece
of paper in his paw. ‘I’m afraid this isn’t good news at all.’

  Bunsen peered over his boss’s shoulder. ‘“Crown Jewels stolen,”’ he read aloud. ‘“Oz and DB under interrogation at Scotland Yard.”’ His pink eyes widened. ‘Oh, my,’ he said. ‘Does Glory mean Scotland Yard thinks that Oz and DB –’

  ‘It would appear so,’ said Julius.

  ‘But this is serious!’

  ‘Very,’ agreed Julius.

  ‘The poor children!’ cried Bunsen, wringing his pale paws. ‘They must be frightened out of their wits. And here we are an ocean away, and not a thing we can do to help them!’

  ‘Steady, Mr Burner, steady,’ said Julius. ‘There’s plenty we can do to help them. I’m going to contact Sir Edmund, first of all, and find out what MICE-6 knows. As for you – well, in addition to being a promising field agent and splendid fencing partner, just remember that you are the brightest and best lab mouse this agency has ever had.’

  Bunsen blinked at this unexpected praise.

  ‘How’s that prototype of yours coming along?’ Julius continued. ‘Amy, I mean?’

  ‘Well, she’s not completely up and running yet, but initial tests have been positive,’ the lab mouse replied cautiously.

  ‘Splendid,’ said the elder mouse. ‘The carpets are being cleaned on the fourth floor before the museum opens this morning, and the administrative offices will be crawling with humans any moment. I’ve recalled the computer gymnasts downstairs as a precaution. Perfect time to take our new gal for a spin.’

  He led the way to the lab through the warren of hallways and offices that made up Spy Mice Agency headquarters. It was early still – Pigeon Air flights wouldn’t begin bringing commuters to work for another hour or two – and the lab was deserted.

  Bunsen scampered over to a cupboard on the far side of the room. He reached into a pocket of his utility belt and produced a small key, then unlocked the cupboard door.