From the window of a luxurious guest room in the sprawling mansion, Pat watched Professor McMoo vanish into the leafy gardens with Sir Lawrence, Prince Albert and Dicky Hart. Beyond a row of fir trees he could see the fishy tips of the three fountains – but no sign of Bo.
“She’ll be OK,” he told himself. “Probably just off clobbering something.” He crossed to the door and peeped out onto the deserted landing. “I hope the queen’s a heavy sleeper . . .”
It was time to start searching the house.
Pat started by checking several rooms along the landing. Then he quickly hid as the footmen came up to do some dusting.
“This is Eliza’s job,” he heard one grumble.
“I quite like it!” said the other happily. “Besides, it’s plain to see that poor dear Eliza is really worn out . . .”
Pat decided that this would be a good time to search the servants’ quarters. He crept down a large curving staircase and started sticking his snout into the poky, musty rooms below stairs where Sir Lawrence’s servants had to live.
Suddenly, he heard a strange, muffled moaning sound coming from behind a heavy wooden door. “Mff-phhh-rrrph!” Nervously, he moved closer and turned the handle.
The moaning grew more urgent.
“Mrphhh-mmph!”
Pat went inside. From the giant bloomers hanging by the window, he knew this must be Eliza’s room. Then he saw one of her oversized suitcases – the green one – on the narrow bed. It was rocking – and the moaning and groaning was coming from inside!
Heart pounding, hooves trembling, Pat undid the clasps and the lid flew open . . . To reveal Eliza Barmer – trussed up and helpless inside her own trunk, gagged with a long woolly stocking!
Pat quickly pulled away the gag. “Help me!” cried Eliza, her eyes wide and fearful.
“Mrs Barmer!” Pat frowned. “Who tied you up and stuffed you in there?”
“I did!” came a gruff voice from behind him.
Pat whirled round – just in time to see the frying pan zooming towards his head. A split second later, it struck – and all he saw were stars, fading quickly into darkness . . .
McMoo paced impatiently round a large pond while Sir Lawrence showed off his pomp lilies to Prince Albert and Dicky. There seemed nothing unusual about them – no tripwires to trigger traps, no poisonous thorns, no deadly squirters hidden inside the delicate white flowers . . .
“Of course, these plants may well become extinct within years,” lectured Sir Lawrence. “They are extremely rare.”
“And getting rarer, old chap,” said Dicky, peering at a large patch of dug-up earth beside the pond. “Didn’t you have another big clump of them growing just here?”
“Gracious!” Sir Lawrence stared at the spot in alarm. “Someone’s pinched them!”
Albert turned pale. “Do you think there are enough lilies left to make sure we are all protected?”
But Sir Lawrence didn’t reply – turning from the pond he had noticed something else. “My beautiful lawn! The grass has been chewed and chomped.”
Suddenly, a piercing shriek rang out in the peaceful garden.
Dicky clutched his chest. “That sounds like Mrs Barmer! I thought she was resting.”
“The shout came from behind those trees,” McMoo pointed. “Come on!” He led the charge of Victorian gentlemen (although in Dicky’s case it was more of a wobbly stagger) through to the other side of the little copse. But once there he skidded to a startled stop.
There was Eliza Barmer, clinging on to both her overstuffed suitcases and wailing for help.
“What’s wrong?” puffed Sir Lawrence. “Why all the shouting?”
“And why bring your luggage out here?” Albert frowned.
“You won’t believe what’s happened to me!” shrieked Eliza.
“You might be right,” McMoo agreed, staring past her. “Because I certainly don’t believe that!”
Dicky Hart appeared beside him, and yowled in fear. “It’s the Black Cow!”
A large beast was wandering out of a nearby rhubarb patch. It looked like the Black Cow at first glance – it was black, for a start, and maybe twice the size of ordinary cattle. But this black cow seemed solid and real.
“It is a ghost no longer!” Prince Albert gulped. “It is here in the fearsome flesh!”
“Fearsome’s a bit too strong a word,” McMoo muttered. “It looks a bit lost.”
“But what about the fountains and the pomp lilies?” cried Dicky as the black cow wandered out of sight behind some bushes. “The parchment said they would keep that ghostly brute away!”
“It only said they would ward off the spirit of the cow,” Eliza reminded him.
Albert nodded. “Perhaps that is why the ghost has turned itself into a thing of form and substance.”
“We must go after it,” cried Sir Lawrence. “That big cow must be made to pay!”
“I . . . I suppose it must.” Dicky gulped. “Oh, my poor ticker!”
McMoo and the gentlemen set off in pursuit, Eliza wobbling along behind them with her suitcases. As they reached the bushes, they saw the black cow heading towards a large, ramshackle stable block, mooing as it went.
“It’s been years since I kept horses there,” panted Sir Lawrence. “But if the walls are still solid, perhaps we can trap it inside?”
“It’s making things easy for us,” McMoo noted as the Black Cow stalked into the stable block. “Something strange is going on here . . .”
“Come on, fellows!” said Sir Lawrence, picking up a big stick. “We must attack the cow!”
“Yes! I’ve run far enough.” Albert clapped Dicky on the back. “Come on, man, we’ll show that rotten Black Cow what British men are made of!”
“But you’re German,” McMoo reminded him.
“Don’t be cheeky,” Albert retorted.
“Well, I’ll fight till I drop,” Dicky declared, loosening his sweaty collar. “Although actually, that might not be long in coming.”
“No, wait, all of you!” McMoo protested, hurrying after the determined men. “Something sneaky is going on. Someone wants you to go rushing after that thing without thinking . . .”
Sir Lawrence ignored him, lingering in the entrance to the stables with his allies. “The light is damnably dim in here.”
“Not as dim as you lot!” cried Eliza Barmer – and with a thrust of her billowing belly she knocked Albert, Sir Lawrence, Dicky and McMoo sprawling to the dirty floor.
The next moment, bright lights snapped on in the rafters – electric lights, McMoo realized. The large cow was revealed at the back of the stable, munching calmly on hay. Then a frightening figure stepped out from behind it.
It was a ter-moo-nator, half-bull, half-machine – but like no ter-moo-nator McMoo had ever seen before. Iron-plates held together with rivets covered half its head and body. Its horns were like towering chimneys. Its chest was a barrel-shaped furnace, and its legs were like mighty pistons. Steam hissed from its metal snout.
“I am T-1901,” said the ter-moo-nator, drawing a ray gun from a holster at its hip. “A master of illusion – and soon, master of the Victorian world!”
