Goldwhiskers (8 page)

‘Just give us a time and a place, and we'll take it from there,' said Stilton Piccadilly.

Goldwhiskers eyed him. ‘You will, will you? Trust me, you'll need much more than just a time and a place.' He inspected the computer screen again. ‘Hmmm. Grand tour of London planned today for the accompanying family – now, that could be interesting.' Something else caught his eye, and the big rat straightened up in his chair. ‘What's this? Dinner and dancing tonight at the Tower of London? Now that is
definitely
interesting.' He gave his two guests a sly glance. ‘Perhaps we might work together after all.'

‘What time is all this stuff – the tour and that dinner?' said Dupont, a trifle belligerently. He was
losing control here. It was bad enough being on unfamiliar turf and having to hand over the reins to Stilton Piccadilly. Now Goldwhiskers was taking over. Roquefort Dupont's tail began to thrash back and forth.

Goldwhiskers ignored him. He tapped on the keyboard again. ‘We'll need their itinerary. Just need to…hack into…the Savoy's…records. Right, here we go.' He clapped his paws together again. ‘Twist! Where's Twist?'

The throng of mice parted as Twist stepped forward. Goldwhiskers leaned down from his throne-like chair and placed a large paw on the mouseling's thin shoulder.

‘Time to test your mettle,' he said. ‘The Savoy, room 607. Make it snappy. You're looking for a piece of paper with a tour schedule on it.'

The mouseling nodded and started to go.

‘Oh, and Twist?'

Twist paused, looking back at the big rat expectantly.

‘Keep an eye out for sparklies,' said Goldwhiskers. ‘No use letting a good opportunity go to waste. The mother is a diva. She knows she's meeting royalty. She'll have brought along her best.'

Twist nodded obediently and melted into the shadows.

‘Sparklies?' said Roquefort Dupont. ‘What the heck are sparklies?'

‘All in good time, my American friend,' Goldwhiskers replied. ‘All in good time.' He nodded at Dodge, who leaped on to the back of his chair and tied a crisp white linen napkin round his thick grey neck. ‘First things first. Smoked salmon, anyone?'

‘But I don't want to see the Changing of the Guard!' whined Priscilla Winterbottom. Their limousine was parked in front of the Royal Opera House. The two sopranos were standing beside it. ‘I've been to Buckingham Palace a million times before!'

Prudence Winterbottom poked her head back into the vehicle. ‘Now, Priss,' she chided, ‘remember what I told you. You are the hostess today, and good hostesses wear cheery faces in public! Buckingham Palace is a high treat for our American guests.'

Priscilla shot a resentful look at her American guests.

‘Please?' coaxed her mother. She thrust a wad of cash into Priscilla's hand. ‘Here,' she said. ‘Buy yourself
something nice at Harrods afterwards. The driver is going to drop you all there for lunch. Won't that be fun? A little shopping? Ice cream and treats at the Chocolate Bar? A ride on the Egyptian escalator?'

Priscilla was not to be jollied out of her ill temper. She flounced in her seat, giving Nigel Henshaw a spiteful jab with her elbow as she did so.

‘Ouch!' cried Nigel, recoiling.

‘Don't be such a baby,' snapped Priscilla. ‘It was an accident.'

She glared at her mother. Her mother glared back.
Ferret senior and ferret junior squaring off for a fight
, thought Oz. He nurtured this little fantasy for a moment, imagining a limousine full of flashing fangs as the mother-daughter duo scrapped and tussled in the back seat.

Lavinia Levinson tugged on her colleague's arm. ‘Come along, Prudence,' she said. ‘They're expecting us in rehearsal. Luigi will sort it all out.'

With a defeated sigh, the British soprano withdrew. Ignoring Priscilla, who was still glowering, Oz's mother leaned in through the window, gave Oz and his father each a kiss on the cheek, and smiled at DB and Nigel. ‘Have fun, kids!'

As the limousine drove off, Priscilla Winterbottom
glared at Nigel Henshaw, who hugged his arms round himself and stared at the floor. Oz and DB gawked at the city through the windows.

No wonder James Bond chose to live here
, thought Oz as they passed Trafalgar Square and St James's Park. London was beautiful. Maybe he'd live here too when he was a grown-up spy. Lost in this pleasant daydream, he nearly jumped out of his seat when Priscilla kicked him in the shin.

‘This is all your fault!' she snarled. ‘If it wasn't for you and your stupid mother, I wouldn't be here.'

Oz stared at her, casting about frantically for a comeback and coming up empty-handed as usual. DB was much better at this sort of thing. He usually thought of snappy things to say about three days later, when it was far too late to matter. ‘Leave my mother out of it,' he mumbled finally, prodding at his glasses.
Pathetic
, he thought, even as the words left his mouth. Oz wished desperately that James Bond were here. Agent 007 would know exactly how to deal with Priscilla Winterbottom.

Priscilla's junior ferret lips stretched out in a sneer. Her junior ferret eyes narrowed. Beside her, Nigel Henshaw scooted as far away as he could. He'd obviously seen that look before, Oz realized. So had
he, unfortunately. It was a shark look. Cold. Calculating. Searching for weak spots. Sadly, he had many to choose from.

‘You want to know something else about your mother?' Priscilla said, softly so that the adults in the front seat wouldn't overhear. ‘She's fatter than mine, and her voice is nowhere near as good. I heard Mr Henshaw say so. Didn't he, Nigel?'

Nigel looked around desperately for rescue, but Oz's father and the limousine driver were still deep in conversation. Priscilla Winterbottom reached out and grabbed the boy's scrawny arm. She gave it a sharp twist. He winced and cried out. ‘I said, “Didn't he, Nigel?”'

Nigel's pale blue eyes flicked quickly towards Oz in wordless appeal. He nodded unhappily, and Priscilla released him.

DB leaned forward. ‘You know, if I had a name like Priscilla Winter
bottom
, I'd be keeping my stupid mouth closed,' she warned.

Priscilla flushed an angry red. She glared at DB, then threw a calculating glance towards the front seat. Poking her lower lip out, she squinched up her eyes and wailed suddenly, ‘Mr Levinson! They're making fun of my name!'

Oz's father turned round in his seat. Priscilla took a hankie out of her pocket and wiped at her eyes dramatically. ‘Wa-aa-aah!' she wailed again, louder this time, peeking over the edge of fabric to see if her phony tears were having the desired effect.

They were. Luigi Levinson frowned. ‘Oz, DB, I'm ashamed of you,' he scolded. ‘Picking on poor Priscilla! When you've only just met. You know better, the pair of you. What would your mother think, Oz?'

‘But –' Oz started to protest.

‘He didn't – I didn't –' stammered DB.

Oz's father shook his head. ‘I don't want to hear another word from either of you,' he said. ‘Not until you apologize to Priscilla.'

He stared at them sombrely from beneath his shaggy black eyebrows. Oz's face flushed. He glanced over at DB, who was squirming in her seat at the injustice. Behind her hankie, Priscilla smirked.

‘I'm waiting,' said Luigi Levinson, drumming his fingers impatiently on the seat back.

‘Sorry, Priscilla,' mumbled Oz finally.

‘Me too,' muttered DB.

‘There, that's better,' said Oz's father. ‘You children
behave yourselves now.' And with that, he turned back to the limousine driver.

A smug smile played across Priscilla Winterbottom's lips. Oz and DB exchanged a wary glance. Priscilla gave new meaning to the term ‘shark'. Most of the sharks they knew avoided getting grown-ups involved like the plague. But they were in altogether different waters with Priscilla. They'd have to navigate their way very carefully.

Priscilla's foot shot out, and she kicked Oz in the shin again. He flinched. ‘My mother is definitely a better singer than yours,' she whispered, baiting him.

Oz shrugged, defeated. If he said anything at all, she'd just tell his father another lie and get him into more trouble.

‘Why don't we let the audience be the judge of that at the concert tomorrow night?' suggested DB.

Priscilla eyed her suspiciously. ‘Fine,' she said finally. ‘You might be in for a surprise, though. Right, Nigel?' Her hand shot out and she pinched the younger boy on the leg. Hard. Nigel whimpered and nodded.

The limousine came to a halt in front of Buckingham Palace. The back door opened, and Luigi Levinson reached in with a bear-like arm
and plucked Priscilla from her seat. ‘Feeling better, my little sugarplum?' he asked. She nodded tremulously. Dabbing at the corner of one eye with her hankie, she smiled triumphantly over her shoulder at Oz and DB.

‘Good. Come along, then, all of you,' said Oz's father, herding Nigel out as well. ‘They'll be starting the ceremony soon, and we want to get a good spot.'

Oz and DB followed, exchanging an uneasy glance.

‘She's awful,' said DB.

‘Horrible,' agreed Oz. ‘Worse than Jordan and Tank.'

‘And she's up to something,' added DB.

‘I know,' said Oz unhappily. The question was, what? Oz sighed. He hoped Glory's holiday was off to a better start than his.

Glory's holiday was not off to a better start, unfortunately.

‘Come on then, lad, out with it,' said Inspector Applewood, the sturdy brown fieldmouse from Scotland Yard with whom she had been paired.

The grubby mouseling seated across the table from them gave his runny nose a furtive swipe. ‘I told you already – I don't know nuffing, guv,' he whined.

Glory sighed. It had been like this all morning. Not an orphan in London knew a thing about the disappearances. Inspector Applewood hadn't even been able to get them to tell him their names. Glory had tried too, but it was clear that the detective resented her
presence, and she had quickly given up. Scotland Yard had not been at all happy to have agents from MICE-6 foisted upon their investigation.