‘What are we supposed to do with THIS?’ roared Roquefort Dupont, hurling the ring that Goldwhiskers had just given him across the floor. It bounced to a stop in the far corner of the cubbyhole, where Farthing, who had been released from the oubliette, was cowering. The tiny mouseling squeaked in alarm and darted away as fast as his little legs would carry him, taking shelter behind Twist. ‘It’s a ring, not revenge!’
‘Are all Americans this dim, or is it just you?’ said Goldwhiskers. He was typing away on his laptop keyboard, the Koh-i-Noor beside him, safely wedged into the seat of his red leather chair. Every few seconds he paused to admire it. ‘Aha, here we are.’ He swivelled the laptop round towards Dupont and Piccadilly and pointed wordlessly at the screen.
‘What?’ demanded Dupont.
Goldwhiskers sighed. ‘I thought you said you could read.’
The hackles on Dupont’s thick neck rose angrily. ‘I can!’
‘Well then, what are you waiting for?’
Dupont shot him a murderous glance and scowled at the screen. ‘After last night’s shocking Crown Jewels theft, Ozymandias Levinson and Delilah Bean, two American schoolchildren, were interrogated before dawn at Scotland Yard,’ he muttered aloud. He looked up at Goldwhiskers, who smiled.
‘Wire service,’ the big rat said smugly. ‘Latest news flash. It’ll be the main headline on every paper in the world in a few hours. Revenge enough for you?’
Dupont shrugged and nodded reluctantly.
‘How about you, Stilton, old chap?’
‘Don’t forget the mother,’ Piccadilly replied.
Goldwhiskers smiled again. ‘Oh, don’t worry – I haven’t forgotten her. Twist!’
The mouseling scampered forward, Farthing clinging to his tail like a limpet. ‘Sir?’
‘Where’s that piece of paper you brought me yesterday, the one from the Savoy?’
Twist trotted off, returning momentarily with Lavinia Levinson’s London itinerary.
‘That’s the one,’ said Goldwhiskers, plucking it out of his paw. He chortled with glee. ‘Oh, this is more fun than I’ve had in ages! Perhaps revenge does do a rat good now and then.’ He waved the itinerary at Dupont and Piccadilly. ‘It’s bound to have her fingerprints on it, right? We’ll just print the ransom note on the back, send it to Scotland Yard, and bingo! One less soprano bellowing onstage.’
He tapped out a few sentences on his laptop, then handed the piece of paper to Dodge. ‘Take this downstairs to the printer, would you?’ he said. His assistant nodded and headed for the office below.
While they waited for Dodge to return with the ransom note, Farthing ran off in search of the ring. He retrieved it from the far corner where Dupont had thrown it and dragged it back to the red leather chair. Squatting down on the carpet beside it, he patted it with his tiny paws. ‘Pretty!’ the wee mouse cried, tracing the circle of diamonds that surrounded the ring’s huge sapphire, and the rubies that criss-crossed its surface.
‘More than pretty, my pet – priceless,’ said Goldwhiskers.
‘It’s a stupid human ring,’ grumbled Dupont.
‘It’s the Sovereign’s Ring, you idiot – worn by the rulers of England,’ Goldwhiskers retorted. ‘It will fetch an enormous sum.’ He leaned forward in his chair. ‘That’s cold, hard cash, remember? Which you and Piccadilly may share between you for your services. Enough to set you up in that castle you’ve been mooning about. Or perhaps your own island in the Caribbean? The two of you would make marvellous pirates.’
A flicker of greed ignited in Dupont’s red eyes. He glanced from the Sovereign’s Ring to the Koh-i-Noor. ‘If the ring’s so valuable, how about that? What’s our share of the diamond?’
Goldwhiskers hesitated. He picked up the Koh-i-Noor in his manicured paws and gazed into its depths. ‘Ah, yes,’ he said. ‘Actually, there’s been a slight change of plan.’
