Free Goldwhiskers by Heather Vogel Frederick

regarded him thoughtfully. ‘Did you get that, Inspector Applewood? They call him Master.’
    The detective glared at her but dutifully recorded the information in his notebook. Glory turned back to the mouseling. ‘And who is this “Master”?’
    Smudge shrugged. ‘Dunno,’ he said. ‘Only been one what was taken that ever came back. That were last summer. She wouldn’t say nuffing at all. At night sometimes, though, she had dreams. “Master,” she’d say. “Please, Master, not the oobly…” The oobly-something! No one knew what she was on about.’
    The room grew quiet as Glory and the Scotland Yard detective digested this information.
So London has a boogeymouse
, thought Glory.
A boogeymouse named Master who is kidnapping orphans
. The question was, why?

CHAPTER TEN
DAY ONE – MONDAY 1530 HOURS
    â€˜Where are we?’ whispered Roquefort Dupont.
    He poked his mangy snout out of the drainpipe he’d just crawled through and looked around cautiously. There were humans nearby. He could hear them. And it was always best not to attract attention when there were humans nearby.
    Stilton Piccadilly shouldered past him.
    His fierce red eyes widened in surprise as he too looked around. ‘TheTower of London?’ he said. ‘Double G, why did you drag us out here?’
    Goldwhiskers smiled and hopped down out of the drainpipe on to the ground below. ‘You’ll see,’ he replied, his whiskers glittering in the last rays of late afternoon sun.
    Dupont hopped down beside the big rat. He yanked on the lead in his grimy paw, and Fumble tumbled to the ground as well. Behind him sprang Dodge and Twist, followed by Stilton Piccadilly. Goldwhiskers held up a paw in warning and pointed towards a stone bridge far above them. On it stood a human. He was dressed from head to toe in a scarlet uniform.
    â€˜It was here, through this very gate, that the boatmen would pass with their cargo of doomed prisoners!’ he boomed.
    The rats froze as the tour guide pointed directly at the heavy, arched wooden gate beside them.
    â€˜Nobody move a muscle,’ whispered Goldwhiskers.
    A crowd of tourists leaned over the stone wall and stared at the gate. They didn’t seem to notice the small cluster of rodents at its base.
    â€˜Imagine for yourselves that final voyage of terror!’ continued their guide. ‘Down the Thames and under London Bridge, where sharp pikes displayed theheads of the unfortunate who had passed through the gate before you. Would that be
your
fate?’ He swooped his large hand down atop the head of a boy in the audience, who squealed obligingly in response. ‘Imagine the torches, their flames throwing eerie shadows upon the dank stone walls! Imagine the cries from the prisoners being tortured! Imagine the horror of it all!’
    The guide shivered. So did his rapt audience.
    â€˜Sounds like my kind of party,’ whispered Dupont.
    â€˜Shush!’ ordered Goldwhiskers.
    â€˜You shush!’ retorted Dupont. Stilton Piccadilly gave him a warning poke. He grumbled, but he fell quiet again.
    â€˜Through this very gate they’d pass,’ continued the human above them. ‘Queens and counsellors, dukes, earls, and princes, many of them never to be seen or heard from again. Do you know what they called this gate? They called it –’ he paused for dramatic effect, raising his arm again – ‘Traitors’ Gate!’ The man brought his arm down in a chopping motion, like an axe, and the crowd shrieked and cheered.
    As the tourists moved off, Goldwhiskers crept forward. ‘Follow me,’ he said to the others. Fumble, who was still attached to his ragged lead, pulled upthe rear, staggering beneath the weight of a duffel bag bulging with gear.
    The rodents disappeared behind a loose stone in the base of the Tower’s thick wall, re-emerging a few seconds later on the other side. They