The Deptford Mice 1: The Dark Portal (22 page)

She waved them to seats and began to heat some milk and honey for them. ‘I really am anxious for news,’ she said, passing them each a steaming bowl.

Thomas sniffed the milk, thinking that it would not warm him as much as a good, tot of rum would.

‘Now,’ said Mrs Brown as she sat down, ‘I have no intention of waking Arthur until you tell me what you want from him. And you, Twit, I’ll ask again, where have you been, and have you seen Audrey?’

‘Permit me, ma’am,’ Thomas broke in politely. ‘The young lad and me have seen some right peculiar stuff this evil night and none of it seems to make any sense. We thought your Arthur could throw some light on a few things.’

‘But why Arthur, Mr Triton?’

‘Well, the bats spoke to him, and what they told him must have meant something, dear lady. Miladdo here couldn’t quite hear what they said to him, so I thought if we asked him to tell us word for word what the bats told him, we might be able to work it out.’ He looked at her pleasantly, his eyes twinkling beneath his frosty brow.

‘No, you must forgive me, Mr Triton, but my son is worn out. He must rest, and I’m afraid I have more important things to worry about than bat riddles. My daughter, you see, is missing.’ She wrung her paws together in worry.

‘Pardon, but . . . dear lady, have you not thought that our two problems are linked? They have a common root, a dark, poisonous canker that must be cut out before it does any more harm. Both our worries are urgent.’ He frowned, and Mrs Brown was startled at how stern he looked. ‘Don’t dismiss my urgency, ma’ am,’ he continued. ‘My instincts are never wrong. I have ignored them before and regretted it most bitterly.’ His voice was dark and grim. ‘Unless action is taken tonight a calamity will occur and all of us shall be sorry.’ Thomas stared at her intently, willing her to help.

What a disturbing mouse this was, she thought. She felt that she could trust him, but what could possibly be so important?

‘Twit dear,’ she said, turning to the fieldmouse. ‘Go and give Arthur a shake, would you?’

Twit hurried from the table and scampered into Arthur’s room.

Arthur lay on his side, his nose resting on his arm. His tail dangled off the bed and twitched as he slept. Twit nudged him gently. ‘Arthur!’ he whispered. ‘Wake up!’ He shook the sleeping mouse a little more roughly.

Slowly Arthur squirmed, then yawned and mumbled. ‘Go way!’

‘Please, Arthur, it’s Twit.’

‘Mmm?’ Arthur carefully opened one eye and waited for it to focus. ‘Hello Twit,’ he muttered. ‘Where’ve you got to? I was lookin’ for you.’

‘I’m here,’ said the fieldmouse, not convinced that Arthur was really awake.

‘That’s right!’ Arthur yawned again and rolled over on his other side, away from the Twit in his dream.

Twit folded his arms crossly. ‘Oh Arthur, do get up.’

The fat mouse on the bed snored.

With a wry smile, Twit pinched his friend hard on the bottom.

Arthur yelped and sat bolt upright.

‘Who is it? What’s happened? Where?’ He waved his fists around before calming down.

‘Get up, Arthur,’ Twit laughed. ‘Someone wants to talk to ’ee.’

Arthur’s mouth fell open.

‘Twit!’ he exclaimed. ‘Where did you spring from? Where did you get to? I looked high and low for you when I came back from the attics.’

‘I don’t think you looked high enough,’ Twit grinned.

‘Is Audrey with you?’

‘No she ain’t – nor Oswald, nor Master Piccadilly.’

‘Well, where the heck did you get to?’

‘Ah,’ Twit replied mysteriously, his eyes shining. ‘I went a visitin’.’

Arthur rubbed his eyes and scratched his head. ‘Just what have you been up to, eh?’

Twit chuckled and grasped Arthur’s paw, tugging him off the bed. ‘Come see who I done brought back with me.’

Arthur got to his feet and stretched. Twit ran out of the room and, greatly puzzled, Arthur followed him.

Thomas Triton drained his bowl of hot milk and stroked his wiry whiskers dry. Arthur stared dumbly at the midshipmouse.

‘Arthur dear,’ began Mrs Brown, ‘this is a friend of Twit: Thomas Triton.’

‘Midshipmouse,’ Twit added.

‘How do you do lad?’ roared Thomas, his eyes sparkling beneath his bushy white brows.

‘Very well, thank you sir,’ Arthur replied, eyeing the stocky mouse doubtfully.

‘Yes, I can see that,’ Thomas grinned, glancing at Arthur’s stomach. ‘Well, sit down boy – I won’t eat you.’

Arthur looked questioningly at his mother. Mrs Brown nodded encouragement. He shuffled to the table and sat down.

‘Well now!’ Thomas bent his head forward and stared at Arthur for a while.

‘Now matey, I believe you went to see the bats.’

Arthur nodded. ‘That’s right.’

‘Well, I’d dearly like to know what they said to you. There’s many an evil thing I’ve seen this night and it’s time I had some answers. There are questions reeling in my old head and makin’ it spin.’

Arthur tried to remember all that the bats had told him. ‘I didn’t really understand what they meant,’ he said. ‘It was all in silly riddles and stuff.’

‘Just try your best dear.’ Mrs Brown gave his paw a quick squeeze.

Thomas rocked back on his stool as far as he could. ‘In your own time lad,’ he said gently, ‘but in the bats’ words.’

Arthur closed his eyes and concentrated. He thought of the bats high on the broken rafter and the puzzling words they had uttered.

‘It was all about Audrey,’ he stammered. ‘They kept mentioning her – not by name but by description: “she is the mouse who has lost her brass” – that sort of stuff.’

‘That would be your sister?’

Arthur nodded. ‘They said she made dolls and that she was going to be wearing silver – how can she do that?’

‘Them bells I gave her were silver,’ piped up Twit.

‘But she never made a doll in her life,’ protested Arthur. ‘You see, it doesn’t make any sense at all.’

‘No, no,’ said Thomas. ‘None of this is relevant. Did they mention Jupiter at all?

Mrs Brown gasped at the open mention of the name. Arthur thought hard.

‘They talked of a fiend that lives below. That must mean him, surely?’

‘And what did they say of him matey?’

‘That I was to be wary of him, but that Audrey should be especially careful; she was the one in real danger: “threefold the life threats” they said.’ Arthur searched his memory. ‘“How shall he be vanquished? By water deep, fire blazing and the unknown path.” What can that mean?’

Thomas frowned. He did not like it. ‘Fire and water, that’s a pretty way to die – are we to roast Jupiter and throw his carcass into the sea?’ He drummed his fingers on the table. ‘Why do I get this feeling the time for action is now?’ He stood up and paced around impatiently, slapping his strong paws together as he thought.

Arthur looked across to his mother. Mrs Brown shrugged. Twit seemed about to speak, when in a whirl of clucking and wailing, Mrs Chitter barged in.

‘Oh Gwen! My Oswald hasn’t come back yet. Have you seen him? Arthur, you must know where he is.’ Then she saw Twit and howled at the fieldmouse: ‘Where is he? Why are you here? You should be in bed too. Where’s my Oswald? What have you done to him – your own cousin?’

‘Madam!’ A strange, stern voice stopped Mrs Chitter in mid-moan. She had not noticed Thomas Triton when she crashed in. Now she considered the stranger; her eyes slid swiftly to Mrs Brown and her brows rose sharply.

‘I’m sorry, I’m sure, if I’m interrupting anything.’

Mrs Brown sighed. ‘Sit down Arabel,’ she said softly.

Mrs Chitter sat down. She pursed her lips and eyed the stranger.

‘This is Thomas Triton. He is a friend of Twit.’

‘That doesn’t surprise me!’

‘Madam.’ Thomas bowed stiffly but Mrs Chitter turned away and rounded on Twit once more.

‘Where is Oswald? You know and won’t tell me. After all the kindness I’ve shown you, welcoming you into my own home after the shame your mother caused me. This is how you repay me.’

Twit stared at her open-mouthed. She was too frantic to reason with, and ranted on and on.

‘MADAM!’ Thomas roared, slamming his fist on the table and making all the bowls jump in the air. Mrs Chitter jumped with them.

She turned to the midshipmouse, ready to give him a piece of her mind.

Thomas held up his paw to stop her. ‘Enough. I will not have you cackling like a stupid hen when more serious matters are at hand.’

Mrs Chitter was outraged, but Arthur hid a quick smile.

‘Your pardon, madam, if I appear a little brusque,’ said Thomas, ‘but time is running out. Your son is, I believe, down in the sewers.’

Mrs Chitter gasped.

‘He is very brave and, let us hope, safe – for the moment. The daughter of this worthy lady is also in the sewers. Maybe the two have met there. The question is, what are we going to do about it?’

For once, Mrs Chitter had nothing to say. She had never suspected that Oswald would be in the sewers, and faced with it suddenly, she was dumbfounded. She thought of her poor child in the darkness, in the nightmare world beyond the Grille, and her eyes began to water. ‘Oh my,’ she cried at last, and began to wail again.

Gwen put her arm around the sobbing mouse and patted her silvery head.

‘There now,’ she soothed. ‘Calm yourself Arabel.’

Thomas cleared his throat. He had been astonished by Mrs Chitter’s behaviour and remembered one of the reasons why he had gone to sea in the first place. He had always found hysterical ladies difficult to cope with. Now he stepped forward and said briskly, ‘Arthur, how many mice are there here who would follow me into the sewers?’

Arthur thought for a moment, but the question was answered by Mrs Chitter.

‘None, you fool. No one here is as mad are you obviously are. Why, there’s not one mouse prepared to go through the Grille.’

Thomas eyed her coldly. ‘And yet through that same grating has your son gone, madam. I wonder where he gets his madness from?’

Mrs Chitter spluttered but could not think of anything to say.

‘I’m afraid she’s right,’ said Mrs Brown sadly. ‘We’re all too frightened to go near the Grille. When we are children we are told how dangerous it is to even go into the cellar. There are powers, you see, enchantments that dazzle the senses. You lose your head, and before you know where you are, you’re lost in the sewers.’

‘And the peeler gets you,’ added Mrs Chitter knowingly.

Thomas twitched his snowy whiskers. ‘There must be someone who’ll come with me,’ he sighed, tapping his sword on the floor.

‘I will,’ chirped Twit cheerfully. ‘The Grille do frit me but I’m willin’ to go sewerin’ again.’ The fieldmouse had grown to respect and trust Thomas so much that he would have followed him anywhere.

‘I knew I could count on you matey,’ laughed Thomas, clapping the fieldmouse heartily on the back.

Arthur glanced quickly at his mother. Mrs Brown looked at him fearfully but before he could say anything a grey storm crashed in on them.

‘Stop! Stop!’ it cried.

Piccadilly had run hard. He had dodged Leering Macky and Vinegar Pete and dashed up to the Grille. Hastily he scrambled through the rusted gap and darted across the cellar floor. Up the steps he jumped and then bolted into the Skirtings.

The other mice were startled but waited for him to catch his breath. Mrs Brown heated up some more milk and honey and he drank it thankfully.

‘It’s Oswald,’ he gasped eventually.

Mrs Chitter gripped the table for support, stood up then sat down again.

Gwen ushered the city mouse to a seat. ‘What about Oswald dear?’

‘He’s been caught – oh it’ll never work, he’s sure to be found out and then—’

‘Now now lad,’ Thomas interrupted. ‘Who has got Oswald and what won’t work?’

Piccadilly tried to explain. ‘Rats have got him!’

Mrs Chitter began to wail. ‘Oh my baby – my poor darling, Oswald, eaten by rats.’

Thomas threw her a despairing glance. Piccadilly shook his head. ‘No, he’s not been peeled – not when I left him anyway.’

Thomas’s eyes narrowed.

‘That’s mighty queer: ratfolk usually eat owt – there’s nothing nicer to them than a young tender mouse.’

Piccadilly found it difficult to make himself heard above the lamentations of Mrs Chitter. ‘But that’s just it! You see, the rats don’t know he’s a mouse – they think he’s a young rat and have, taken him to dig in a great big mine. It can’t work – they’ll twig sooner or later. What’ll he do when they find out?’ Piccadilly’s anxious face looked from Thomas to Arthur.

‘Well, that’s a tale and no mistake,’ said Thomas. ‘I’d be interested to find out anything Oswald may have learned in those mines. Are you willing to venture down there again?’

In a grave, faltering voice Piccadilly slowly replied, ‘If we could help Oswald then I’ll go down again.’

‘We may help many,’ mused Thomas darkly.

Mrs Chitter, who had not really been listening to the conversation, suddenly exclaimed, ‘Oh save my baby.’ She drummed her paws on Thomas’ chest and flung back her silvery head. ‘Oh Oswald. Save him, someone!’

The midshipmouse untangled himself from her and handed her to Mrs Brown.

Twit shook his head. It was hard to believe sometimes that his mother and Mrs Chitter were sisters. He looked up to Thomas expectantly. A plan was brewing. He could tell that the midshipmouse had made up his mind to do something.

The seafarer gripped his sword with one paw and placed the other on Piccadilly’s shoulder. Solemnly he stared at the city mouse. ‘You’re a brave lad. You’ve seen a lot of bad things that one your age shouldn’t have seen, and still you’re keen to go into the sewers again. One last time to save a friend. We’ll find Oswald – or avenge him, and the young lass too.’

‘The lass?’ Piccadilly did not understand. He looked about them. For the first time he realised that Audrey was not with them. ‘You mean Audrey’s down there?’