‘Come on,’ said John. ‘We’d better hurry. The sky is getting lighter. It must be nearly moonrise. Here, Dumpsie,’ he went on. ‘I don’t suppose the Broomhurst sentries will bother about humans, but they will be on the look-out for strange cats. You’d better sit inside my jacket until we get inside the house.’ (He was still wearing the best suit he had worn for the Sale.) He picked her up and tucked her inside, where she continued to purr her thanks. When they reached the gate into the yard, Rosemary, who was in front, stopped suddenly, and lifted a warning hand.
‘Cats, talking!’ she whispered.
‘You’d better repeat instructions, Growser,’ said a solemn cat-voice. ‘I wouldn’t be in your paws if you make a mistake.’
‘Of course I know the instructions, Splodger,’ said a second voice.
‘Mr Sprules’s cat!’ mouthed Rosemary.
‘One shrill miaow if I see so much as a whisker of a Fallowhithe animal,’ went on Growser. ‘But what’s it all about, I should like to know?’
‘You will be told, all in good time,’ said Splodger. ‘Her Majesty Queen Grisana will be here any minute now to explain. Wait a minute: there she is, I do believe, on the other side of the yard! Come on, let’s hurry!’
The two animals ran off together, and as John and Rosemary peered round the gate-post in the thinning darkness, one after another, shadowy cat shapes ran on silent paws in the same direction.
‘There must be dozens of them!’ whispered John, and then from the far side of the yard came the voice of Grisana. It rose harsh and shrill, like the squeal of a slate pencil that sets your teeth on edge. To an ordinary person it would have sounded like any cat singing to the rising moon, but to John and Rosemary, and of course to the animals in the yard, she was making the same sort of speech as Queen Elizabeth I before the battle of the Armada.
‘Cats of Broomhurst!’ she called. ‘Now is the chance to pour shame and scorn on your hated rivals, the cats of Fallowhithe!’ She paused, and there was a stir and a murmur among the animals assembled in the yard. ‘Carbonel, their king, is held prisoner in this very house behind me. When the moon rises he will be set free — or so he thinks. I have commanded you to make a ring round the house, so that, from whichever door or window he leaps, you will be ready to catch and hold him fast!’ There was a yowl of excitement from the cats. ‘We shall take him captive back to Broomhurst!’
‘Yowl! Yowl!’ yelled the cats.
‘But that is not all,’ cried Grisana. ‘When Calidor, his son, hears what has happened, he will come at once to the rescue of his father. Hiding behind every corner and every chimney pot of the town, we shall watch him walk into our trap; and when I give the sign it will be the work of a moment to scrodge the pair of them!’
The vicious way in which Grisana spat out the word ‘scrodge’ made Dumpsie poke an indignant head from John’s jacket.
‘Don’t you dare ...’ she began.
John pushed her hurriedly back again. Luckily the Broomhurst cats were making such a chorus of triumphant miaows and miaowks that they had not heard her.
‘Come on,’ whispered John. ‘Now’s our chance to creep round to the scullery window while they’re making this shindy, before the sentries go back to their posts.’
23. The Full Moon
SILENTLY, John and Rosemary crept round the front of the house, Dumpsie still making indignant cat noises inside John’s jacket.
‘Look, there’s a light in one of the windows, and someone is playing the piano,’ said Rosemary.
They tiptoed up to the front of the house, and, standing on the weedy flower-bed underneath, peered cautiously through the window. Mrs Witherspoon, swooping and swaying, was playing a strange wild tune, the two flickering candles in their holders on either side making her shadow dance even more wildly. The only thing in the darkened room that was perfectly still was Gullion the toad, who sat motionless on top of the piano.
‘What with the piano pounding in front, and cats cater-wauling at the back, nobody would hear us however much noise we made!’ said John. ‘Come on, let’s hurry.’
And hurry they did: across the drive, and through the jungle of what was once the kitchen garden.
‘Of course,’ said Rosemary, ‘the Middle Magic only made the house as it was fifty years ago, not the outside. But John, won’t the latch of the scullery window be mended? That’s part of the house.’
John looked at her in alarm. ‘I hadn’t thought of that. Come on!’ They broke into a run.
‘Thank goodness!’ he said, when they reached the window. Rosemary had been right. It was no longer broken, but it was neatly pegged open a few inches. The door was locked, as they expected, so John lifted the metal arm from its peg and swung the casement wide. Dumpsie poked her head out of his jacket once more.
‘Better let me get in first, then I can see if it’s all right.’
John lifted her up, and she jumped on to the draining board the other side.
‘All clear!’ she called back.
‘Now you, Rosie,’ said John. ‘I’ll give you a heave.’
Unfortunately, he heaved with rather too much enthusiasm, and there was a crash of falling saucepans, as Rosemary disappeared through the window. They all three froze, but the distant piano-playing never faltered.
‘There’s an even bigger pile of dirty washing-up than before,’ said Rosemary. ‘So look out!’
When John, too, was safely inside, they crept down the passage and through the green baize door, which made a ghostly ‘whooshing’ as it swung to behind them. Across the hall they tiptoed, avoiding the shaft of light which shone through the half-open door of the music room, through which the sound of the piano still surged, and up the thickly carpeted stairs to the gallery.
The wavering circle of light from John’s torch steadied on the door leading to the turret. It was propped open, and on the bottom step was a bedroom candlestick with a box of matches in the saucer. As they climbed the spiral staircase, the sound of the piano grew fainter. When they reached the little landing at the top, they no longer found a jumble of junk, but an orderly pile of trunks and suitcases, with a dressmaker’s dummy seeming to stand guard beside the doorway to Carbonel’s prison. Rosemary ran across, and fell on her knees.
‘Carbonel! Are you there? It’s us, John and Rosemary!’ she called through the keyhole.
‘I am here,’ said a faint voice inside. ‘Where else should I be?’ it added bitterly.
‘But not for long. You’ll soon be free,’ said John. At this there was a chorus of squeaks from the Scrabbles. ‘Listen,’ went on John. ‘There isn’t much time. It’s nearly moonrise. This is important. When Mrs Witherspoon opens the door to let you go, slip out of the prison room as quickly as you can, but come to us. We shall be hiding behind the suitcases. It will be dark, so she won’t see you. Whatever you do, don’t go down the stairs till we give the signal.’
‘But the Cat’s Eye creatures?’ said Carbonel.
‘They can’t see in the dark either, whatever Mrs Witherspoon thinks,’ said John.
‘I knew that from the beginning,’ said Carbonel scornfully. ‘But their iron paws are sharp, and they can run, as I know to my cost.’ The Scrabbles burst into another bout of squeaking at this, and from the tapping of their claws on the wooden floor John and Rosemary could imagine them jumping excitedly up and down.
‘Whatever you do ...’ began John. ‘What’s the matter?’ he went on. Rosemary was pulling his sleeve.
‘The piano has stopped,’ she whispered. ‘Mrs Witherspoon must be coming. Quickly, hide!’
They both ducked down behind the suitcases. There was complete silence except for the beating of their hearts. Even the Scrabbles were still. In the dim light that heralded the rising of the moon, they could just make out the darker shape that was the opening at the top of the spiral staircase. Suddenly, very faintly, they heard the striking of a match, and as the sound of mounting footsteps grew nearer, the opening became lighter, until Mrs Witherspoon stepped out on to the landing, holding the lighted candle above her head. For a moment, she stood there, framed against the darkness, the flickering candle-light glinting on her long crimson dress, on the braids of her black hair, and on Gullion, who sat perched upon her shoulder.