Operation Bunny Page 7

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Detective James Cardwell often pondered the folly of human beings, especially the ones who called themselves grown-ups. Grown-up human beings didn’t believe in fairies. Instead, they watched horror films and scared themselves witless with zombies and vampires. Why? He hadn’t a clue. After all, he had been around for hundreds of years and had yet to meet a vampire or, for that matter, a werewolf. But a bad fairy or a goblin—well—that was something else altogether. Then there was Harpella, the queen of witches. The one thing he knew for certain was that she alone could cause more trouble than any grisly ghosty he had seen on TV.

  * * *

  When Daisy Dashwood arrived at the Red Lion Hotel later that morning, the place was still in chaos. Daisy, however, seemed quite unaware of it all, which didn’t surprise Detective Cardwell one little bit. Without a word, she was taken into the lounge, where she sat miserably on a chair, clutching a hankie. Detective Cardwell thought that Emily was right when she described Daisy without her makeup as having the look of a rat.

  “What do you want?” she said to the detective, sobbing. “I’ve lost my babies, I’ve lost my husband, my makeup, my clothes.… What else is there left to lose?”

  Detective Cardwell could have named a few other things, but instead he ordered tea and toast with butter and marmalade.

  “I don’t eat carbohydrates,” said Daisy. “I don’t want to lose my figure as well.”

  Nevertheless, when the tea and buttered toast and marmalade turned up, she ate the whole lot without complaint, and color returned to her cheeks.

  “Better?” asked Detective Cardwell.

  “Yes.” She let out another sob.

  “Good. Now, I would like you to tell me about the visit you had from Doris Harper.”

  “This isn’t about Ronald, then?” asked Daisy.

  “No, I’m conducting a missing persons inquiry, and we believe your daughters are among the victims.”

  “Oh, my days,” said Daisy, sitting bolt upright and brightening a little. “Then you don’t think I’m nuts when I tell you that my girls have been changed into zombies?”

  “No, I don’t think you’re nuts,” said Detective Cardwell. “More toast?”

  “Oh, yes please,” said Daisy. “Nothing has tasted this good in ages.”

  “Now,” said Detective Cardwell, after Daisy had tucked into another plate of hot buttered toast, “would you tell me when you first became aware of the change in your triplets?”

  “I know the date, the time, and the place,” said Daisy. “It’s stuck forever in my mind. You see, I thought this Doris Harper was from the makeup department. My cutiekins had been the three peas in a TV commercial, and their skin was stained green, and it wouldn’t come off. Anyway, Doris Harper turned up, she made their skin white again, all right, blooming zombie white, and—”

  “Your daughters told me she had a lamp with her,” interrupted the detective.

  “You what?” said Daisy.

  “A lamp. A bit like an Aladdin’s lamp.”

  “Oh, my days, yes, she did. There was a little battle—each of my cutiekins wanted to hold it. You know how children can be, and three as well. There was a little how-do-you-do.”

  “Then what?”

  “Nothing,” said Daisy. “Or at least I thought nothing. Like good girls, they gave the lamp back. Later I realized something was wrong.”

  “I believe she sucked the spirits of your daughters into the lamp. If you could help me get the lamp, there is a good chance you will have your girls back to their old selves.”

  “Tell me what I need to do, and I will do it,” said Daisy.

  Detective Cardwell explained the plan. Wisely, he left out the bit about Harpella’s habit of turning human beings into colorful bunnies when she wasn’t changing them into zombies.

  When he had finished, Daisy Dashwood stood up, looking like a furious rat. “I will kill that Doris Harper, that’s what I’ll do, when I lay my hands on the old witch,” she said.

  “That won’t be necessary,” Detective Cardwell said. “You just have to distract her long enough for Emily Vole to get the lamp.”

  “Come again?” said Daisy, leaning toward him. “Did you say Emily Vole?”

  Detective Cardwell nodded.

  “I knew that little minx was involved in this,” said Daisy. “Telling lies about Ronald and me, sneaking, squeaking behind our backs. It’s because of Emily that my Ronald’s been arrested, isn’t it?”

  “No, Mrs. Dashwood,” said Detective Cardwell. “Emily had nothing to do with the warrant for your husband’s arrest. The Fraud Squad has been investigating him for a long time. He is suspected of laundering money through phony companies. The only one that was a proper business was yours.”

  “Laundry? I do beauty treatments, not laundry,” said Daisy Dashwood. Then the penny dropped. “How much trouble is he in?” she asked.

  “Up to his neck in it,” said Detective Cardwell.

  “He’d better hope you find him before I do,” Daisy snarled.

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Emily Vole and Daisy Dashwood stood in front of the old shop. Emily knew a lot about it from the stories Miss String had told her, and now, after being briefed by Detective Cardwell, she was as well prepared to deal with a witch as a girl could be. Or so she thought.

  Emily knew the keys protected her from bunnification. Her heart thumping, she brought them out of her pocket and quickly went in, followed by Daisy. The shop was dark and dusty, full of cobwebs. It looked as if no one had been inside for a hundred years, which was most probably correct. The walls were lined with tiny drawers. Another room, joined to the first, was so dimly lit that it was impossible to see inside.

  “Oh, my days,” said Daisy Dashwood. “This heap of rubbish is what the old bat left you? You’re welcome to it.” At that moment, the keys leapt from Emily’s hand and landed on the floor.

  “Ugh!” said Daisy. “I hate spiders, I really hate them. This place gives me goose bumps.”

  It wasn’t spiders running about, but the keys.

  Emily watched, dismayed, as they hopped, skipped, and scuttled merrily across the wooden floor. She tried to catch them, but it was useless. Each one disappeared into the murky gloom. Quite what she was supposed to do without the keys, she hadn’t a clue. It may be best to leave, she thought. Too late. Daisy was already in the second room and had pulled aside a curtain to reveal a flight of crooked steps.

  “No,” whispered Emily. “Come back. I’ve lost the keys.”

  Daisy Dashwood wasn’t going to be ordered about by Emily Vole, no matter what the detective had told her. Determinedly, she started up the twisted stairs.

  Emily followed Daisy. She couldn’t very well leave her. Too many people needed to be saved.

  Together they climbed the winding staircase. Daisy grumbled about having to wear a bright orange boiler suit. But it was either that or her dressing gown.

  “What would my clients at Paradise Beauty Salon say if they could see me? I mean, orange. Oh, my days. It clashes with my skin tone.”

  They stopped at the first landing. From the other side of a black-painted door, they heard a voice. There was no mistaking to whom it belonged.

  “Let me out of here, you tricksy timbers, you double-crossing doors.”

  “You witch! I want my little cutiekins back.” Daisy bashed fearlessly at the door.

  “Oh no!” said Emily.

  “No?” said Daisy. “I say YES, with bells on, that’s what I say. I haven’t had a good fight since I was six.”

  Suddenly the door gave way. Daisy and Emily went flying in. There stood Harpella, crackling with rage, lightning flashing from her long, flaming hair. Before her she held the spirit lamp. Emily was sure that at any moment Daisy would be bunnified.

  Daisy Dashwood charged. She and Harpella wrestled in a blur of clashing colors.

  “Don’t touch me,” thundered Harpella as she backed away from the fury of Daisy
’s attack. “No one touches me!”

  “And no one takes away my three little girls,” screamed Daisy. She grabbed hold of Harpella’s flaming locks and pulled them with all her strength while bashing and kicking the old witch. “I want my three cutiekins back,” she screeched, ignoring Harpella’s threats. “Do you hear me, you old bat of a witch?”

  “Get off me,” squealed Harpella. “Your very touch burns my skin.” She lifted the spirit lamp, ready to bring it down on Daisy Dashwood’s head.

  Emily had a feeling of everything happening in slow motion and at the same time with great speed.

  She rushed forward and jumped as high as she could. She snatched the lamp from Harpella’s hand, grabbed hold of Daisy, and ran for the door through which they’d come. To Emily’s surprise, it had begun to shrink, becoming smaller and smaller.

  By a cat’s whisker, they escaped before the door disappeared altogether, leaving Harpella trapped on the other side.

  They sped down the stairs and, completely out of breath, came to a sudden stop.

  “Oh, my days,” said Daisy Dashwood. “Where are we?”

  They were not in the shop, that was for sure. They were in a wood-paneled room. There was a fireplace with a mirror over it and not much else, not even a door.

  “Oh, buddleia,” said Emily.

  At that moment, Daisy caught a glimpse of her reflection in the mirror. Surely that couldn’t be herself staring back, could it? A woman with floppy orange rabbit’s ears? And if that wasn’t bad enough, with a small, twitchy brown nose? And whiskers?

  The shriek that Daisy Dashwood let out shattered the glass in the mirror, and on that note, she fainted away.

  Chapter Twenty-three

  “Buddleia and buddleia again,” said Emily. “How can you have a room without a door? It’s just plain silly.”

  At the sound of Emily’s voice, a huge iron ring in the center of the floor sprang up and started to throw itself from side to side. Emily clung tightly to the spirit lamp and went to take a closer look. It was a handle to a trapdoor.

  Gloomily, it spoke in a deep, rusted voice: “Pull me,” it said. “Pull me.”

  Emily was trying to do this with one hand while firmly gripping the lamp in the other, when the trapdoor flew open so suddenly that she and the lamp were sent flying across the room. Emily stood up, dazed. The lamp … where was it? It was bumping speedily across the floor toward the trapdoor.

  “Are you all right, my little ducks?”

  To Emily’s great relief, Fidget’s head poked through the trapdoor. He pounced on the lamp and gave it back to Emily, then threw Daisy Dashwood over his shoulder and clambered back through the trapdoor to the shop below.

  After Daisy had been stretchered out, sneezing, to an ambulance, the shop door jangled shut, and all was peaceful with the sound of a century’s silence. In the dusk, Emily caught a glimpse of something golden flickering. If she wasn’t mistaken, it was one of the keys, and it had sprouted the smallest pair of dragonfly wings.

  Detective Cardwell and Fidget stood still. Even Emily, with all the questions on the tip of her tongue, daren’t let one of them slip out. Something extraordinary was about to happen. The key fluttered and hovered between two of the cabinets of tiny drawers. It settled on one, then burrowed into the lock. There was a click as the drawer glided open. Sitting on a dark velvet lining was the most beautiful pair of fairy wings. Emily stared at them until, in a flutter of her eyelid, they had vanished and Detective Cardwell lit up the dark shop in a sparkle of lights, the wings poking out from his coat, his face aglow.

  He flew into the air, spinning with delight, hovering above the counter. He returned to the ground and, with a beam of a smile that made him look years younger, lifted Emily off her feet. They rose and sat, laughing, on the top of the cabinets until they heard a thunderous roar from above.

  “You tricksy timbers, you double-crossing doors!”

  Harpella. Emily couldn’t believe she had almost forgotten about her.

  “Time to make a move,” said Detective Cardwell. “The building has a mind of its own, and it might decide to release her.”

  “Wait—the other keys,” said Emily. She could see them running toward her.

  Detective Cardwell’s car was parked outside. They piled in and, blue light flashing, sped away.

  Emily sat in the back, holding tight to the lamp. It was the most awkward of things. It wriggled about and farted puffs of bad-smelling smoke.

  They were on the motorway when Emily glanced back. There were sparks in the sky. Harpella on her broomstick was bearing down on them. Detective Cardwell put his foot flat on the accelerator, but Harpella was faster. A rip-roaring bolt of lightning hit the side of the car, and half the bodywork fell away.

  The witch was on top of them. She fired her broomstick again, and this time took the roof off the car.

  Emily wrestled with the lamp, which was fighting to get free. Her finger found a trigger in the handle, and in that instant, an idea came to her. Kneeling on the seat of the now open-top car, she held the lamp out, hoping Harpella would come even closer.

  Certain she could grab the lamp, Harpella took the bait.

  “Take this, you evil old witch,” Emily shouted. “This is for what you did to Miss String!”

  And she pulled the trigger.

  There was a burst of light, and to Emily’s relief, Harpella was lost in a puff of purple smoke.

  * * *

  James Cardwell’s car was found upside down, halfway up a bank on the side of the motorway. A report reached Scotland Yard that the car was empty. Detective Cardwell was missing, and so were Mr. Fidget and Emily Vole. All that was found at the scene of the accident was a large purple rabbit with pink ears.

  “Don’t touch me,” it repeated, over and over again.

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Detective Cardwell, Emily, and Fidget landed safely in a country lane about five miles away. Their escape was thanks to the detective’s rediscovered fairy talents.

  “We were nearly skinned cod back there,” said Fidget.

  Emily, somewhat dazed, was pleased to find she still had hold of the spirit lamp. It rattled as if there were a pebble inside.

  Detective Cardwell quickly moved away from her.

  “I definitely don’t like the sound of that,” he said.

  Emily looked inside the lamp and pulled out a huge yellow tooth.

  “Swipe me with a kipper,” said Fidget. “That’s the largest dragon’s tooth I have ever seen.”

  “And one of the most powerful,” added Detective Cardwell, moving even farther away.

  A sound came from the spirit lamp. A sigh. From its bottom, two legs unfolded. On its feet were curly-toed Moroccan slippers. Then two arms sprouted from its sides.

  “That dragon’s tooth,” said a voice from the lamp, “has been stuck in the old belly for too long. It’s been causing me gyp, I can tell you.”

  Emily was so surprised that she dropped the lamp on the ground.

  It shook itself.

  “Nobody move,” said Detective Cardwell. “Stay put while I think what to do.”

  “It was the tooth, I tell you, the tooth who murdered the fairies, not me,” said the lamp. “I am an innocent, peace-loving, ill-used, unloved—”

  “Rotten to the core, piece of useless junk,” Fidget muttered. “If it weren’t for the fishes, I would throw you to the bottom of the ocean and let the barnacles do their worst.”

  “I heard that,” replied the lamp. “I would like it noted, Detective, that I was always fond of fairies. That it was Harpella who put that THING”—he pointed at the tooth Emily was holding—“inside me. It took away all my magical powers.” The lamp lifted its lid and shook itself to make sure there was nothing of the tooth left inside. “And there was I, thinking you might be understanding,” it added sadly, “knowing what a horrid time I have had of it.”

  “Understanding?” said Fidget. “Horrid time? Blow my whiskers!”

>   “Fidget,” said Emily, “you’re not helping.”

  The lamp rudely stuck its spout out at him.

  “Keep your fur on,” said James Cardwell, holding Fidget back. “We have enough to worry about without a catfight. For starters, what do we do with that tooth?”

  “The bottom of the ocean?” suggested the lamp as it wandered off.

  “It must have been a huge dragon,” said Emily, examining the tooth.

  At first she didn’t notice the wind, but it grew stronger and seemed to be coming from the top of the dragon’s tooth. Then the tooth dissolved into a cloud of tiny gray flies and rose into the sky, swerving right and left as if searching for someone or something. Suddenly, the cloud zoomed off in the direction of the motorway.

  Five miles away, a large purple and pink rabbit sat up on her haunches and twitched her nose.

  * * *

  The lamp returned to Emily with a small bunch of dandelions.

  “These,” said the spirit lamp, “are for you, my new mistress.”

  “New mistress?” said Emily.

  “Why, of course. You have saved me from Harpella. She treated me abominably—abominably, I tell you! Look at this dent—here—and here. I received these injuries when she threw me across the room. I am delighted with this outcome. But I must just tell you, I have no genie, and I don’t do wishes.”

  “Oh, fish paste,” said Fidget. “That’s all we need. Another piece of clever-clogs ironmongery.”

  They arrived at the Hendon laboratory around lunchtime. Detective Cardwell organized a special train to take the rabbits back to Liverpool Street Station, the hope being that the lamp would transform them back to their old selves. James Cardwell was keeping well away from it. Fidget was to go along with Emily to make sure that the lamp didn’t get up to any dirty tricks.

  “It may be chatty charm itself now,” he said, “but remember, that lamp has been with Harpella for centuries. The question is, can a lamp change its puff?”

  Emily and Fidget were the last to board the train before the whistle blew. It was a strange sight indeed to see so many bunnies sitting in cages, each one on a passenger seat. Emily had been given a mobile phone and felt very important. Even the old lady detective with the knitting didn’t have a mobile phone. If the lamp wouldn’t work, then Emily was to text Detective Cardwell: OPERATION BUNNY FAILED. Otherwise, he would be waiting at Liverpool Street Station to take Emily and Fidget back to Podgy Bottom and the Red Lion Hotel.