‘I say, fancy you thinking all that out!’ said John, and the respect with which he said it made up for the number of times he had made her shut up. ‘But wait a minute. You hadn’t got the ring when we were scrapping. It was in my tin for Special Things.’
Rosemary shook her head. ‘That’s just where you’re wrong. We took it out of the box so that we could talk to Calidor, and I must have put it in my pocket afterwards, and when I shoved my hands in too, because they were cold, I must have slipped it on without thinking. I remember taking it off on the way home with the Scrabbles.’
John gave a slow, breathy whistle. Then he said: ‘But look here! If it’s a wishing ring as well as letting us hear cats talk, all we’ve got to do is to wish the Scrabbles back in their holes again. Where is it now?’
‘In my bedroom, in my coat pocket.’
‘Then what are we waiting for?’ said John.
Together they stampeded up the stairs. Rosemary didn’t wait to switch the bedroom light on, but rushed to the peg on which her coat was hanging, and after some frantic fumbling in the wrong pockets she found it at last. Standing very straight and stiff, with the Golden Gew-Gaw on her up-raised finger, in a solemn voice she said: ‘I wish to goodness the Scrabbles were back in their holes again.’ Then feeling she had perhaps not been very polite she added under her breath: ‘Yours sincerely, Rosemary Brown.’
For a moment they stood very still.
‘The stone in the ring,’ said John. ‘It gave a sort of wink!’ But Rosemary had switched on the light. Its hard, white glare banished the shadows, and shone in every corner of the room.
‘Carbonel was right. The ring is dangerous. Do you think we ought to put it in the dustbin, or bury it or something?’
‘If we did we couldn’t hear Carbonel or Calidor talking. Here, stick it back in the tin, and we must be very careful not to take it out unless we specially want to hear them.’ He snapped the lid firmly down on the Gew-Gaw as he spoke.
‘I do wish Carbonel would come so that we can tell him everything that’s happened.’
‘But we promised Miss Dibdin we wouldn’t tell a human soul,’ said John.
‘Carbonel isn’t human. He’s a cat,’ said Rosemary.
John grinned. ‘You aren’t as stupid as you look!’ he said. But by the friendly way he tweaked her hair, she knew he was paying her a compliment.
‘You don’t think something has happened to him, do you?’ said Rosemary. ‘Carbonel I mean?’
‘Something’ll happen to us if we don’t go down to supper!’
On their way downstairs they met Mrs Bodkin. ‘Where have you been all this time?’ she said. ‘I didn’t hear you come in. All that smarmed-down hair! It isn’t natural,’ she added suspiciously.
‘Oh, we’ve been in for ages,’ said John airily. ‘Getting cleaned up for supper.’
‘Lucky for you supper’s late. Mr Sprules, him that keeps the second-hand book shop in Broomhurst, called, and he’s staying on.’
Mr Sprules was a large, bald, friendly man, and both John and Rosemary were glad of his presence over supper, because they had so much to think about. They sat in silent thought, munching their food, barely aware of Mr Sprules’s boom and Uncle Zack’s lighter voice answering one another; their talk bouncing backwards and forwards across the table, like a ball in a game of tennis. But they both looked up sharply from their plates when they heard the words ‘cat’s eyes’.
‘A funny thing,’ Mr Sprules was saying. ‘Some silly young vandals have dug up the studs on the stretch of road beyond the railway bridge, down Sheepshank Lane. They were talking about it at the tobacconist’s when I looked in on my way here.’
Rosemary sat up with a jerk. Her face was red, and her eyes wide. ‘It might not have been “stupid vandals”,’ she said indignantly. ‘And — how do the tobacconist people know about it so soon? It was only ...’
But at this point, John, who was unable to nudge her in the ribs this time, because of the width of the Cromwellian table, broke into a prolonged, rather artificial cough.
‘Have some water, my boy,’ said Uncle Zack. ‘You’d be surprised how soon news gets round in a village.’ He looked thoughtfully from John to Rosemary. ‘You’re unusually quiet, you two! Sure you’re all right?’ Reassured by their nods he went on: ‘How did you get on this afternoon? They’ve been delivering leaflets for me, for the Sale on Saturday,’ he explained to Mr Sprules.
‘Except for Tucket Towers, we went everywhere, I think,’ said John. ‘It was getting rather late, so we thought we’d better leave that till tomorrow.’
‘Well done!’ said Uncle Zack. ‘I’m very grateful to you both. I’m afraid I have left the leaflets rather late.’
‘Don’t forget I said I’d come and lend a hand at the Sale,’ said Mr Sprules.
‘Very good of you, my dear chap,’ said Uncle Zack.
‘Talking of Tucket Towers,’ went on Mr Sprules, ‘Mrs Witherspoon came into my shop the other day and bought a couple of battered old books from the bargain tray and asked my young assistant to take them out to her tricycle. Very high and mighty she was!’
‘She is a strange old thing,’ said Uncle Zack. ‘Lives in that great house all alone, and dresses up for dinner every night, they say, although it’s probably nothing but baked beans on toast. The house used to be full of really lovely stuff, furniture and old silver, but she’s sold it now, I believe. I dare say she’ll come to the Sale, buy an old cracked plate, and eat an enormous tea!’
‘You’ve never provided refreshments before?’ said Mr Sprules.
‘It has never been so important for me to sell things before,’ said Uncle Zack ruefully. ‘I wish I had a better head for figures. I had another very disturbing letter this morning. I’m afraid I shall have to sell nearly all my favourite things.’
‘Not your special treasures?’ said Rosemary. Uncle Zack nodded.
‘It was Mrs Bodkin’s idea about refreshments. She said it would make people in a better mood to buy things, with a cup of hot tea inside them and a couple of her macaroon biscuits.’
‘A very sensible woman!’ said Mr Sprules.
‘Oh well, let’s talk about something more cheerful,’ said Uncle Zack. ‘I tell you what! How about a game of Heads-Bodies-and-Tails or something, after supper? Could you face it, Sprules?’
‘There’s nothing I’d like better!’
Next morning, when Mrs Bodkin brought in the scrambled eggs for breakfast, she was breathing rather heavily and her usually neat hair straggled over her forehead.
‘Why, Mrs Bodkin!’ said Uncle Zack. ‘Is anything the matter? You look upset.’
‘I’ve had a nasty turn,’ said Mrs Bodkin, with a hand on the heaving bib of her apron. ‘I would never have believed it! I can’t abide rats. Never could from a child.’
‘Rats?’ said Uncle Zack. ‘I’m glad to say we’ve never been troubled with them in this house.’
‘Not in the house,’ said Mrs Bodkin. ‘That shed at the bottom of the garden!’ John and Rosemary exchanged anxious glances. ‘I went down there before getting breakfast, to see if that big old enamel bowl was there — for the biscuit mixture for the Sale. As soon as I opened the door they came pouring out. Hundreds of them! They nearly knocked me over. They went streaming up the garden in a sort of huddle. The queerest-looking rats you ever saw! Square they were, with great shining eyes, and not a tail amongst ’em. And squeaking! You never heard the like!’
‘How extraordinary!’ said Uncle Zack. ‘What did you do?’
‘I came over quite queer,’ replied Mrs Bodkin. ‘So I sat down on that broken old wheelbarrow, till I felt a bit better.’
‘I’m very sorry you’ve had such a shock,’ said Uncle Zack. ‘Perhaps you’d better go and lie down for a little.’ Then he turned to John and Rosemary. ‘Come on, you youngsters. We’d better go and look into this straight away.’