A Boy Called MOUSE Read online

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  .

  This book is dedicated to Michael James Dolan,

  and to all who work behind the scenes, wherever they are

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  Contents

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  Prologue

  x

  PART ONE

  Gone!

  A Game Begins

  x

  PART TWO

  Chapter 1: Mouse, Dreaming

  Chapter 2: Roseberry Farm

  Chapter 3: A Search Begins

  Chapter 4: A Stranger Arrives

  Chapter 5: An Education Is Arranged

  Chapter 6: A Carriage Arrives

  Chapter 7: Mouse’s Game

  Chapter 8: The Closed Mouth

  Chapter 9: A Useful Talent

  Chapter 10: Friends and Enemies

  Chapter 11: More and Less

  Chapter 12: A Change of Face

  Chapter 13: A High Point

  Chapter 14: Meanwhile, Revenge

  Chapter 15: Passing Time

  Chapter 16: Debts and Doubts

  Chapter 17: A Ladleful of Trouble

  Chapter 18: An Agreement

  Chapter 19: Hidden Words

  Chapter 20: Strange Fruit

  Chapter 21: Silence Breaks

  Chapter 22: The Last Course

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  PART THREE

  Chapter 23: Home

  Chapter 24: A Change of Plan

  Chapter 25: Punchman

  Chapter 26: The City

  Chapter 27: Biter Bit

  Chapter 28: A Place of Great Cleanliness

  Chapter 29: Beneath the Cupboard

  Chapter 30: New Faces

  Chapter 31: Following On

  Chapter 32: Behind the Scenes

  Chapter 33: Idle Words

  Chapter 34: Time Passing

  Chapter 35: A Different Laughter

  Chapter 36: Caught in the Act

  Chapter 37: Elsewhere, a Cart Stops

  Chapter 38: Himself

  Chapter 39: Meanwhile, on a Small Island

  Chapter 40: Cloaks and Daggers

  Chapter 41: A Small Visitor

  Chapter 42: Found and Lost

  Chapter 43: Some Words of Direction

  Chapter 44: A Request

  Chapter 45: Down by the Docks

  Chapter 46: The Emporium

  Chapter 47: A Cunning Plan

  Chapter 48: Scrope Alone

  Chapter 49: Kitty Caught

  Chapter 50: Homecoming

  Chapter 51: Clutching at Hairs

  Chapter 52: Question Time

  Chapter 53: Finders Weepers

  Chapter 54: Pause for Thought

  Chapter 55: A Step into the Dream

  Chapter 56: Shouting Out

  Chapter 57: Doubled Trouble

  Chapter 58: The Prodigal’s Return

  Chapter 59: Flying High

  Chapter 60: Words Indeed

  Chapter 61: Painted Faces

  Chapter 62: Exit Stage Left

  Chapter 63: Disappearing Act

  Chapter 64: Adnam’s Lair

  Chapter 65: Post Haste

  Chapter 66: On the Scent

  Chapter 67: Mistaken Identity

  Chapter 68: Morning Tea

  Chapter 69: A Trick of the Light

  Chapter 70: A Kettle on the Boil

  Chapter 71: Adnam the Great

  Chapter 72: Different Places

  Chapter 73: A View from the Stalls

  Chapter 74: Dreams in Midwinter

  Chapter 75: A Prime Position

  Chapter 76: A Gift from the Gods

  Chapter 77: A Firm Hand

  Chapter 78: A Sense of Direction

  Chapter 79: After the Fall

  Chapter 80: Eggs and Tea

  Chapter 81: One Last Look

  Chapter 82: Mirror, Mirror, on the Wall

  Chapter 83: Making Up

  Chapter 84: The Last Act

  Chapter 85: The Long Path

  Chapter 86: Mouse, Dreaming

  Dramatis Personae

  Author’s Notes and Acknowledgements

  Imprint

  .

  PROLOGUE

  ‘Once upon a time there was a boy,

  and they called him

  Mouse . . .’

  .

  That is how my story began

  when I told it to myself

  in the long darkness.

  .

  Of course,

  it wasn’t the whole story,

  but back then

  I knew nothing,

  almost nothing at all.

  M

  .

  GONE!

  The fourth-floor window was wide open, and there, on the sill, stood a very young boy. Little Mouse laughed and reached his arms out towards the birds in the treetops and the clouds blowing across the sky, as if he longed to be flying with them.

  Hanny, the nursery maid, saw all this. She also saw Uncle Scrope with one hand raised behind the small boy’s back, waiting. One strong hand, one quick push, and what then?

  Hanny rushed forward. With a quick sweep of her arm, she gathered the child back into her apron and lifted him down to the floor.

  Scrope blinked. The strange light in his pale eyes died away, as if some wild urge had been halted. He slipped his hand – the one that had been poised behind Mouse’s back – casually back into his own pocket.

  ‘Oh,’ Scrope drawled, ‘it’s you. The nursery maid.’ He stared at the gravel path far below. ‘Long way down, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes, sir. It is,’ Hanny replied, trying to calm the fear in her heart. ‘I’ll take Mouse safely back to the nursery now, sir. I was surprised to find him gone.’

  ‘Good girl. Children do wander so, I hear.’ Scrope did not even look at Hanny. ‘And get someone to close this window properly. It seems to have become unlatched.’

  By the time Hanny reached the nursery, she was shaking all over. She pointed towards the supper tray.

  ‘Eat, please, Mouse.’

  The boy peeped up at Hanny out of the corner of his eye. He studied her round, pleasant face and her rosy cheeks. Then, smiling mischievously, he carefully picked up a triangle of buttered bread in his fingers and popped it in his mouth. Then he opened wide to show he was doing what she had asked.

  ‘Oh, Mouse!’ Hanny said sadly, while she smiled at the boy, at his soft tufty hair, his bright brown eyes and his slightly sticking-out ears. ‘Mouse, what am I going to do about you?’

  Only when Mouse was safely in his cot did Hanny dare to think about what she had witnessed. A child like Mouse could fall down a flight of steep marble stairs, or topple from a balcony, or drop from a window so, so quickly. A child like Mouse could slip and trip and crash to his doom so, so easily. A man like Scrope would find it very, very useful if such an accident happened to happen.

  Nurse Hanny had seen the secret self hidden within the unremarkable Uncle Scrope. She knew he was someone who lived two lives.

  Here, in the grand mansion that was Epton Towers, Scrope lived quietly. He seemed content. Obedient to his elderly father’s commands, Scrope acted the perfect aide, attending to the family papers and letters and ever at his side. Scrope’s v
oice, when he spoke, was as soft as feathers.

  Yet Hanny had caught sight of Scrope returning from trips to the city, with his pocketbook full of winnings and his eyes as bright as those of a hawk seizing its prey. She had seen Scrope come skulking home when the cards had turned and brought him bad chance. At such times, his eyes brooded malevolently on young Mouse.

  Why? Simple. Scrope was the second son of old Epsilon. Mouse, too young to know about such differences, was the first son of the first son – and the one who stood between Scrope and his family’s fortune.

  Hanny shivered again, remembering that wide-open window. One push, one shove, and Mouse would be no more. Other dangers were waiting too. Hadn’t Scrope enquired very, very eagerly about when Mouse could be set on a saddle and taught to ride?

  Hanny fretted. The worry would not go away. If Mouse, her young charge, was to grow from baby to boy, she had to do something, say something, and soon.

  Hanny tried to do the right thing. On Sunday, when the bell rang for Mouse to make his weekly visit to Grandfather Epsilon, Hanny tucked her yellow curls into her nursemaid’s cap, put on a fresh starched apron and dressed Mouse in his best clothes.

  Then, as the clock struck four – no earlier, no later – they went downstairs, entered the vast drawing room and waited silently, as instructed, near the terrible tiger-skin rug.

  Mouse stared back into the glass tiger-eyes, and snarled silently back at the sharp tiger-teeth. He did not like seeing the tiger. He did not like seeing the old man either. Grandfather Epsilon, nodding within his huge claw-footed armchair, reminded Mouse of the ancient tortoise in his alphabet book. Mouse was glad Hanny did not bring him to this room very often.

  Many years before, Epsilon had energy. He had built and bought and schemed and toiled until he possessed – at last – the grandeur of Epton Towers, whereupon he had stuffed it with riches. He had all he wanted, despite the early death of his unfortunate wife, until the day that Albert, his eldest son, his beloved heir, disobeyed him. From that moment, Epsilon’s heart had turned cold as iron and his head had become a hive of bitter thoughts.

  Though the nursery nurse and the boy waited on the rug, Epsilon barely saw them. He sat, letting his mind churn continually on Albert’s folly. A useless expedition!

  How could Adeline, Albert’s young wife, have urged his son to go adventuring, to disobey Epsilon’s orders? How could they have sailed away, leaving him, the father, all alone in Epton Towers? After all he had done for them. Why had they not stayed to do their duty? Ungrateful heir! Ungrateful pair!

  Epsilon’s eyes narrowed. How he would punish them! How he would punish the one they had to leave behind! If Albert was not here to speak to his own child, why should he, Epsilon, do so? Not one word, not one breath, would he bestow . . .

  What, what? A voice had interrupted his tangle of complaints. Someone was talking to him. That young nurse in her drab grey dress was pleading with him, begging him to pay some kind of attention to Albert’s toddling infant. Silly woman! It could not be done.

  Epsilon rapped his ivory-headed cane on the floor. No, no, no! No requests. Go away! Go away! Go away to the nursery, and bother me no more! The cane spoke clearly of Epsilon’s displeasure.

  Mouse’s lip quivered in alarm, but then the boy turned and ran out quite happily, with Hanny following. There, at the end of the corridor, was the grand marble staircase, ready for his infant ascent. Up those chilly heights crawled Mouse, climbing higher and higher, eager to touch the topmost step of all.

  Alone once more, Grandfather Epsilon sniffed with bleak satisfaction. ‘When Albert returns, he will be sorry for what he has done,’ he muttered, aching for his moment of cold triumph.

  Rarely did Epsilon look beyond his nose. Rarely did he ponder on his second son, Scrope, sitting at a desk scribbling away. That feeble creature would always do what he was told.

  No wonder Scrope’s long face was pale as the parchment on which he copied his father’s papers. Scritch-scratch went Scrope’s dutiful quill, so humbly, so bitterly. Scrope knew he would never be his father’s favourite, never compare well against the absent Albert. Epsilon had made this clear to Scrope almost every day of his life.

  Quietly, Scrope brooded on this and on other hurts. He brooded on Albert’s only son too, the one who was Adeline’s child and would one day be heir to Epton Towers. He brooded, and he dreamed.

  Back in the nursery, while Mouse picked the currants out of his cake, eating them one at a time and counting each bite, Hanny was in despair. How could old Epsilon be so deaf to her warnings?

  Around midnight, as Hanny stitched at another small nightshirt, thoughts started stitching themselves together in her mind.

  Mouse’s grandfather didn’t want him. Mouse’s uncle wanted him even less. Mouse’s grandfather didn’t want him . . . Mouse’s uncle . . .

  An idea popped into her head. At once Hanny knew the idea might be wrong. How could she even have thought of such a thing? But she had, and now she could not unthink it. Slowly, as the dark hours of the night passed, Hanny stitched the pieces of her plan together.

  There had been, Hanny remembered, a much earlier plan, a departure day when all was ready for the expedition. It was the same morning that Hanny discovered the baby burning with fever in his crib, too ill to be moved. Hanny’s mistress, Adeline, was torn apart with anguish. How could her baby face the dangers of such a long voyage?

  What had Adeline said at that moment? What had she decided? Hanny almost spoke the words aloud.

  ‘I have to go with Albert, Hanny. I promise to send word as soon as I can, but, until then, take good care of my child for me. Keep Mouse safe, please, Hanny. Keep him safe and well!’

  Safe and well. Safe and well! Those had been Adeline’s exact words. Now Hanny had to make her choice too, and she would do what she must do. Hanny would keep Mouse safe, no matter the cost.

  So, when first light came, Hanny lifted Mouse from his nursery bed. She wrapped him warmly and tied him tightly to her back with a shawl, like a country child. His little legs dangled in their button boots.

  ‘Shh, Mousekin!’ said Hanny. ‘I’m taking you where we will be wanted and where you will be safe.’ Even, she thought, if this might not be exactly the end of the problem. ‘Go back to sleep, child.’

  The small boy tucked his thumb back in his mouth and closed his eyes.

  Hanny slipped out of the nursery, stepped down the long back stairs and, as dawn warmed the sky, was off and away with her burden.

  Hanny knew nobody would notice that she and Mouse had gone, not for a while, because she attended to all the child’s cooking and laundry. For a time, life at Epton Towers would carry on as normal.

  Nevertheless, she left things in some kind of order, ready for when people came looking.

  ‘Dear Sirs,’ she had written, on the notepaper that lay on the side cupboard, ‘Please excuse this hurried departure. The cough Mouse suffered from last month may be returning. He needs some country air most urgently. So I am taking him somewhere where he will grow strong and happy and healthy, and all will be well.

  Yours sincerely,

  Nurse Hanny.’

  She left no forwarding address.

  In fact, as Hanny hurried along, she felt sure she was making life easier for everyone. Who but she cared about the boy anyway? Certainly, by the time a cart, trundling early along the high road, stopped to offer her and the child a lift, Hanny’s heart was much lighter. All would be well!

  Oh dear, oh dear! The young Nurse Hanny did not know quite enough about Uncle Scrope; nor did she know who else would act in the life of a boy called Mouse.

  .

  A GAME BEGINS

  However, Uncle Scrope was not thinking about Mouse. He too needed to escape from Epton Towers. He wanted to be away from that place, to be himself again,
not just a pawn moving to the commands of his critical father. Uncle Scrope was off to the city.

  Around late afternoon a hansom cab delivered Scrope to the elegant warmth of the Golden Cockatoo Club, where he had a fine dinner followed by several satisfactory hours at the gaming tables. This – the familiar touch of cards and dice – was what he had longed for, even when the bets proved expensive.

  Scrope’s wagers floated along on the rumours of Epsilon’s wealth. Often he was tempted into playing dangerously, but what harm was there in that? Often he won, didn’t he?

  Scrope had practised concealing his passion from his father, and this made him clever at hiding his intentions during games. At each close of play, as Scrope gathered up his winnings and downed another goblet of wine, he felt well and truly comforted.

  Scrope woke late, groaning. His eyes stayed shut, but the noise of traffic beyond the windows told him he was still in his rooms in the city. Then a sudden polite cough informed him he was not alone. Scrope opened one eye.

  Mr Button was there. Scrope’s stomach knotted in panic. He did not remember giving Button any key, and he could not immediately recall how much ready money he already owed Button. Then the success of last night’s games broke into his memory, making Scrope smile lazily at such foolish anxieties.

  ‘Good day, sir!’ said Mr Button. He was perched on a wooden chair, with a pot of coffee on the table at his side.

  Mr Button was a small man. He wore a tight black suit and tight black boots. His hair shone glossily on his head. His cheeks were as rosy as an apple in a fairy tale. Button poured a second cup of coffee for himself, then filled Scrope’s delicate china cup.

  ‘Are we ready to check our accounts yet? It is well past one o’clock.’

  Sliding his chair a fraction closer to Scrope, Mr Button opened a discreet leather-bound notebook. His hard, round eyes scanned page after page, his pencil pecking down the columns of numbers.

  Scrope adjusted his nightshirt awkwardly and struggled to sit up against the plump pillows. As he sipped at the strong coffee, he grew less groggy.

  Mr Button was most efficient. He checked through the persons who still owed Scrope – and therefore Button – money. He extracted several scribbled IOUs from Scrope’s discarded garments, then he smoothed out the sheets, circling amounts and adding on percentages very precisely.