The Secret of the Ginger Mice (7 page)

“Ginger spies,” someone hissed as the young mice weaved through the crowd in pursuit. “The Queen's Guards will get you.”

Alistair jumped in fright. Had that been directed at them?

Tibby Rose's grip on his arm tightened. “Did you hear that?” she gasped. Alistair thought her rose-tinged fur looked paler than usual.

“Yes,” he said grimly. “I'm starting to see what your grandpa meant by
unwelcome attention
.” It occurred to him that they might actually be in danger here, though for the life of him he couldn't work out why. Because they were ginger? It just didn't make any sense.

They turned the corner and drew to a halt. The street was virtually deserted—and Grandpa Nelson was gone.

“What do you—,” Alistair began, but he was cut off by a voice behind him saying, “Well I never. Never in my whole life did I see a ginger mouse, and now I seen two at once. Or is my eyes playing tricks?”

The two young mice turned to see a spotted mouse behind the counter of a newspaper stand rubbing his eyes. He sounded amazed but not hostile, Alistair was pleased to note.

“Nope,” he said, when he had opened them again. “That's two ginger mice all right. Now what are you two doing here?”

After an awkward pause, Alistair whispered, “Just follow my lead, okay? And look innocent.”

“That shouldn't be too hard,” Tibby Rose muttered back. “We
are
innocent, as far as I know.”

“Um, good morning, sir,” Alistair began politely, moving toward the piles of newspapers stacked in front of the kiosk's counter. There was a paper called the
Templeton Times
, he noticed, and the
Souris Sentinel
.

Looking up, he saw magazine racks on both sides of the kiosk, opening like wings off the counter. These, too, held a range of titles Alistair had never heard of:
Mousewife Weekly
and
Grouch Gardener
. His aunt and uncle read the
Shetlock Times
and the
Smiggins Mail
, but he couldn't see any copies of those here. It dawned on Alistair, staring at the unfamiliar covers, that he really was a long way from home. Indeed, it was as if his home didn't even exist. He felt a moment of panic, but then his eye lighted on a familiar masthead. It was
Gourmet Mouse
—his downstairs neighbor, Mrs. Zetland, had dozens of well-thumbed copies. Feeling calmer, and noticing that both Tibby Rose and the newspaper seller were looking at him curiously, he swallowed and said the first thing that came into his head.

“We were—we were just looking for a white mouse with a brown hat and a walking stick. He . . . d ropped something, and . . . we want to give it back.”

Tibby Rose nodded innocently. “That's right,” she said.

“White mouse, you say? Brown hat, walking stick? Ah, you must mean Dr. Nelson. He just went through there.” The spotted mouse indicated a door with the words
Templeton Times
printed on it. “Visiting with his old friend Granville, probably. You know Granville? The newspaper editor?”

Alistair and Tibby Rose shook their heads.

“Huh. I thought everyone knew Granville. Yes, I reckon Granville would be pretty pleased to see old Dr. Nelson. Time was when those two lunched together most every day, back when the doc was still working at the hospital.” He put his elbows on the counter and leaned forward confidentially. “'Course, that was a long while ago now. Ten years, eleven, maybe more. We haven't seen that much of Dr. Nelson since his sister got that terrible disease.”

“Disease?” said Tibby Rose in surprise.

The newspaper seller inclined his head sorrowfully. “Poor old Miss Harriet,” he said. “Why, she was the principal at my school when I was but a little feller—many, many years ago that. She was a tough old mouse; I would have sworn she'd never know a sick day in her life. But . . .” He lifted his shoulders, seemingly in acknowledgment of the strange way the world worked. Alistair, who had gone to sleep in one country and
woken in another, knew exactly what he meant.

“What—what kind of disease?” Tibby Rose asked faintly. She was gripping Alistair's arm again.

“Oh, awful . . . awful,” said the spotted mouse. “Puffed up like a balloon and covered all over in purple spots. And the pain . . .” He paused, then said again: “Awful.”

Tibby Rose started to laugh but at a jab in the side from Alistair smothered it into a choking sound that could have been a sob.

“Please excuse my sister,” Alistair said to the mouse behind the counter. “She's very soft-hearted. Hates to hear about anyone in pain.”

The other mouse nodded approvingly. “And it's a credit to her,” he said. “They reckon Miss Harriet caught a strange sickness from her niece. You know—the one what ran away then came back sick? Well, Miss Harriet has not set foot outside that house since the day her niece came home. Didn't even come to that poor girl's burial.” He sighed. “It's a sad thing—two good mice like Dr. Nelson and Miss Harriet growing old all alone in that big old house, and her so sick. Everyone in Templeton is mighty cut up about it, I can tell you.”

Tibby was gaping at the newspaper seller in astonishment, and Alistair wasn't surprised. Could it really be true that no one in town even knew she existed?

Suddenly a rhythmic stamping filled the air and the spotted mouse straightened. “The Queen's Guards,” he muttered, his eyes darting from left to right and then snapping back to Alistair and Tibby Rose in alarm. “You two had better . . . the Queen's Guards, you know . . . ginger mice . . .” As the marching steps grew louder, he cast a desperate look around and then swiftly lifted a hinged section of the counter to reveal a door into the kiosk.

“Quick,” he said. “In here.”

Without stopping to think, Alistair pushed Tibby Rose ahead of him into the dark space.

The spotted mouse lowered the counter into position just as the footsteps rounded the corner into the laneway, pulling to an abrupt stop in front of him.

“Everything all right then, Watson?” barked a gruff voice.

Through a crack in the slats of the kiosk, Alistair, crouched by the feet of the spotted mouse, could just make out the bottom halves of six white mice in red coats and tall, shiny black boots.

“Fine, sir, fine indeed,” replied the newspaper seller cheerily, as though he didn't have two ginger mice hidden under the counter.

Why did they have to be hidden though? Another mystery. But Alistair had seen the scared look on the
newspaper seller's face as he had ushered them into his booth; there was no doubt he believed that Alistair and Tibby Rose were in danger.

Alistair tried to make eye contact with Tibby Rose, but she was scribbling on a scrap of paper with a pencil stub she'd found on the floor beside her.

“And what brings the Queen's Guards to my humble kiosk this morning?” the spotted mouse was asking curiously.

Alistair rolled his eyes impatiently. Watson the newspaper seller was clearly a very kind mouse, but did he really have to engage everyone who crossed his path in conversation? Then the younger mouse heard something that made him press his ear to the gap in the slats and listen intently.

“Reports of unrest around the border with—”

As Alistair and Tibby Rose exchanged wide-eyed glances around the legs of Watson, another guard hastily cut off the first guard's sentence.

“No reason,” he said sharply, and Alistair saw the heel of one shiny boot coming down on the toe of another. “No reason at all,” he repeated over the ensuing yelp.

And with that, six pairs of shiny boots (with one boot limping slightly) turned and marched back down the laneway.

When the sound of heels on pavement had faded,
Watson looked down at the two mice kneeling at his feet with his eyebrows raised questioningly. But when Alistair opened his mouth to explain—though exactly what or how or why he was going to explain he really had no idea—the spotted mouse held up a hand.

“It's probably better if you don't say nothing,” he said. “What I don't know can't hurt me.” He shook his head and whistled between his teeth. “I reckon you two look mighty young to be wandering the town alone, but I suppose you know what you're doing.”

No
, thought Alistair.
We have absolutely no idea. I wish we did.

“And I just don't buy that rubbish about every ginger mouse being our enemy.” He stroked his whiskers thoughtfully and then muttered, “Can't say as I'd blame you though, after everything your people have suffered.” Just as Alistair was about to ask what he meant, the spotted mouse cleared his throat and said briskly, “Anyway, you came here wanting to do a good turn by old Doc Nelson, so I done a good turn by you.” He rubbed his whiskers and added, “What goes around comes around, see?”

As Watson turned his gaze in the direction of the street down which the Queen's Guards had marched, Alistair felt Tibby Rose press the piece of paper she had been writing on into his hand.

Glancing down, he could just make out the words in the dim light:
Dear Grandpa Nelson, I have gone to help Alistair find his way home. Please do not worry about me. I understand now that you were keeping me hidden, though I don't know why. Tell Great-Aunt Harriet I'm sorry, and that I hope she can go out again. Thank you both for looking after me so well. Love, Tibby Rose
.

Alistair looked at Tibby Rose. She nodded, her expression both sad and defiant. Then, as Watson turned his attention back to them, she quickly mimed folding the piece of paper. Alistair did so, and when the newspaper seller said, “So about that thing the doctor dropped?” he held out the folded note and replied, “This fell out of his pocket. Perhaps you could give it to him when he has finished his meeting with Mr. Granville.”

Watson took the note and said, “That I can surely do.” He lifted the counter. “And you two had better be running along.”

As Alistair and Tibby Rose left the shelter of the kiosk Alistair heard him muttering, “Two ginger mice . . . At the same time! . . . Well I never.”

5

A
lex and Alice hurried down the stairs, eager to be on their way, but when they reached the second floor their path was blocked. It was Mrs. Zetland, still in her dressing gown, her gray fur in disarray. The two mice groaned under their breath. They liked Mrs. Zetland—she enjoyed cooking and almost always had a freshly baked biscuit close to hand—but she did like to talk . . . and talk . . . and talk.

“Good morning, you two,” she said. “You're up awfully early for a couple of mice on summer holidays.
In fact, the whole family seems to be. Beezer off to work, and your uncle galloping down these stairs as if his fur was on fire. Though what better time to rise early than in summer? The early mouse gets the cheese, as they say. Not that I'm much of a morning person myself—still, I never say no to a bite of cheese. Now where might you be off to, I wonder . . . and where's that delightful brother of yours?” She looked up the stairs inquiringly.

“Hi, Mrs. Zetland,” said Alice. “We're going . . .” She paused, suddenly realizing that she couldn't tell their neighbor the truth.

“To Stubbins,” Alex broke in. “To visit some of our old friends there. Alistair went on ahead.”