Glory gazed down at the mahogany desk in front of her. It was a beautiful piece of furniture, obviously a genuine antique. Probably foraged from some aristocratic family’s dollhouse centuries ago, she thought, with a tiny pang of homesickness. Her brother Chip, one of the Spy Mice Agency’s top foragers, would give his whiskers for a find like this.
The desk was polished to a high gloss, and Glory could see her face reflected in its surface. She looked nervous. She was nervous. She shifted uneasily on the cork where she was perched. Sir Edmund Hazelnut-Cadbury, head of Britain’s MICE-6, was seated across the desk from her. He was every bit as imposing as she had expected, and he’d been staring at her in silence for a full three minutes.
Like Julius Folger, her boss back in DC, Sir Edmund had fur that was silvered with age. Like Julius, he wore a bow tie. And, like Julius, Sir Edmund had the same dignified bearing befitting a mouse elder. But where Julius’s eyes twinkled frequently, Sir Edmund’s were sombre. At the moment, at least.
The head of MICE-6 cleared his throat. He rattled the file folder in front of him. ‘So you are Morning Glory Goldenleaf,’ he said finally.
‘Yes, sir,’ Glory replied, trying to keep her voice level. Stay calm, she told herself. Don’t blow this interview.
‘I’ve heard a great deal about you,’ said Sir Edmund.
Glory nodded cautiously, unsure how else to respond.
‘Most of it positive,’ continued Sir Edmund.
Most of it? Glory’s pulse quickened. She was eager to make a good impression, and ‘most of it’ didn’t sound too promising.
‘Westminster and Savoy, two of my top agents, both speak very highly of you. And my old friend Julius Folger thinks…’ He paused and gazed down at the letter that Glory had brought along from her boss.
Curiosity flared in Glory. What exactly did Julius think of her? She angled her head slightly, trying to read her boss’s familiar scrawl on the Spy Mice Agency’s letterhead.
The head of MICE-6 snapped the file shut. ‘Let’s just say you come highly recommended. I, however, have reservations. It states here you were awarded Silver Skateboard status after your very first mission – that disastrous affair with the Kiss of Death.’
‘But it turned out all right in the end!’ Glory protested.
Sir Edmund held up a paw, silencing her. ‘Simply not the way we do things over here,’ he told her, shaking his head. ‘We have different standards altogether.’
There was an awkward silence. Sir Edmund cleared his throat. He pushed a platter across the desk. A slightly chipped china saucer, it was stamped with a picture of a red double-decker bus and had clearly been foraged from a rubbish bin behind one of London’s many souvenir shops. ‘Almond?’ he offered.
‘No, thank you,’ Glory replied politely. She was still stuffed from breakfast. Squeak’s parents ran the Townmouse Grill at the Savoy, a fancy restaurant directly above the plaster ceiling of the hotel’s Thames Foyer. Upon her arrival earlier this morning, she and Squeak’s family had feasted on buttered crumpets with strawberry jam and what seemed like endless pots of tea. Afterwards, Glory had settled into the guest nest in Squeak’s equally fancy penthouse apartment, tucked under the eaves of the hotel’s top floor. It had a fabulous view of the river, and Glory, who still couldn’t believe she was actually in London, had had to prise herself away. She’d almost missed her Pigeon Air taxi to the Cabinet War Rooms, where MICE-6 had its headquarters deep beneath Winston Churchill’s old wartime bunker.
‘Let’s get down to business, then,’ said Sir Edmund, shoving aside the file folder and the platter of almonds. ‘First things first. Julius informs me that you’ve brought along a new acquisition from the museum.’
Glory opened her backpack and pulled out a silver coin. She handed it to Sir Edmund. He turned it over in his paws, then pressed down on one edge.
‘Splendid,’ he said as the coin flipped open, revealing a hollow interior. ‘This will prove very useful. Perfect way for our couriers to carry secret messages.’
Sir Edmund pushed a button on his intercom. ‘Miss Honeyberry?’ he barked. ‘Send in agents Westminster and Savoy.’
‘They’re down below at the underground skate park, sir,’ a soft voice replied. ‘Finch is showing them a new move. Something about a stale fish, I believe they said?’
‘Stale fish 720,’ noted Glory. ‘Or 540. Classic Tony Hawk tricks.’
‘I don’t care if the fish is stale or fresh,’ said Sir Edmund irritably. ‘Fetch them back at once, and tell them to take the Tube. I haven’t got all day.’
‘Yes, sir.’
The intercom went silent. Sir Edmund Hazelnut-Cadbury drummed his tail impatiently on his desk. He opened Glory’s folder again and scanned its contents. Glory gazed at the portraits of dignified mice that lined the walls. Sir Edmund’s predecessors, apparently: Sir Peregrine Inkwell. Sir Rupert McVitie. Sir Archibald Leach.
Surprisingly, there was a portrait of a human, as well. (A framed postage stamp, actually.) Glory stared at it. She’d seen that face before. The man looked a bit like a bulldog. A very distinguished bulldog.
Sir Edmund looked up from the folder. ‘Winston Churchill,’ he said, noting her gaze. ‘Personal friend of my great-grandfather.’ He nodded towards the portrait of Sir Peregrine Inkwell. ‘Peregrine was my mother’s grandfather. Belonged to the Poetry Guild, as did all the Inkwells. He founded MICE-6.’
Sir Edmund leaned forward. ‘Poets make excellent spies, oddly enough,’ he informed Glory. ‘They’re clever at reading between the lines, of course, and nothing escapes a poet’s keen eye for detail.’ He pushed back off his cork and stepped closer to the portraits. ‘They met right here, you know, Churchill and my grandfather,’ he continued. ‘Churchill was prime minister during World War Two. It was a very dark time. London was under constant attack. Bombs were dropping everywhere. This building served as Churchill’s bunker, his secret wartime headquarters.’
The elder mouse glanced over at Glory. Her bright little eyes shone with keen interest. She’d learned about Winston Churchill in spy school, but this was different. Sir Edmund was related to a mouse who actually knew him!
‘The Blitz affected humans and mice alike,’ the head of MICE-6 explained. ‘The bombs threw everything into chaos. The rats of London used it as an excuse to launch a major offensive: the Great Turf War. As luck would have it, my great-grandfather chose to set up our espionage headquarters in this building, right here beneath Churchill’s office.’ He pointed a paw towards the ceiling. ‘One night, Peregrine crept upstairs to borrow some ink for a speech he was working on to rally the guilds in his weekly radio address. Perhaps you’ve heard of it? His famous “Blood, Tails, Tears and Sweat” speech?’
Glory nodded. The speech, broadcast over MBC (Mouse Broadcasting Corporation), was one of the most famous and stirring in all of mouse history.
‘Great-grandfather was in a hurry to finish in time for the evening broadcast, and he accidentally left a copy on Churchill’s desk. The prime minister found it, read it and left a note in response, expressing his admiration. They began to correspond, exchanging ideas for speeches and encouraging each other in their respective battles against the forces of evil. Rats come in two-legged varieties as well as four, you know.’
Glory thought of Jordan and Tank back in Washington DC, and nodded in agreement.
‘At any rate,’ continued Sir Edmund, sitting down again, ‘my great-grandfather finally decided to introduce himself. Only time in our country’s history that the Mouse Code has been broken.’
Sir Edmund harrumphed and frowned at Glory. She dropped her gaze and inspected the top of the desk again. She knew that Sir Edmund did not approve of her breaking the Mouse Code. Julius had told her so. The head of MICE-6 was worried that teaming up with humans – especially human children – would only lead to disaster.
Sir Edmund opened a small box that lay on the desk in front of him, took out a tiny gold key and unlocked his bottom desk drawer. He removed something from it and passed it to Glory. ‘Only photograph in existence of the two of them together,’ he said.
Glory took the picture in her paws and stared at it. Winston Churchill was seated at his desk, on which stood Peregrine Inkwell. The two of them stared proudly at the camera. Sir Peregrine was holding something aloft.
‘What’s that?’ asked Glory, trying to make it out.
‘Ah,’ said the head of MICE-6. He reached into the drawer again and pulled out a small silver medallion. He slid it across the desk to Glory. A likeness of Churchill was stamped on its gleaming surface, along with the words NEVER GIVE IN!
‘Churchill had this crafted by a silversmith as a gift,’ said Sir Edmund. ‘He presented it to my greatgrandfather after the war, as a tribute to their triumphs and a reminder of all that they had been through together.’
‘What does that mean, “Never give in”?’ Glory asked.
‘That’s a line from one of Churchill’s best speeches,’ explained Sir Edmund. ‘“Never give in,” he said, “never give in, never, never, never, never – in nothing, great or small, large or petty – never give in except to convictions of honour and good sense.”’
Glory flipped the medallion over. Sir Peregrine Inkwell’s noble profile was etched into the other side, along with the words LUX TENEBRAS EXSTINGUIT.
‘That’s Latin, right?’ she said.
Sir Edmund nodded. ‘It means “light extinguishes darkness”. Our agency’s motto, and a constant reminder that evil always, always falls to the forces of good. Not without a struggle, mind you – sometimes a mighty one. But it always has, and it always will.’
Sir Edmund’s voice rang with confidence, and he suddenly reminded Glory very much of Julius. She could see why the two were friends.
There was a loud whirrr! behind Glory. Startled, she dropped the medallion and swivelled round just in time to see a narrow plastic tube shoot with a thwump through a pipe in the wall. It skidded across the carpet and came to a stop beside her. A hatch on the top popped open.
‘I believe you are acquainted with Bartholomew Westminster and Squeak Savoy,’ said Sir Edmund as Glory’s friends climbed out.
‘Bartholomew?’ Glory looked at her colleague in surprise.
Bubble shrugged sheepishly. ‘Bubble is just my nickname. A few of the lads gave it to me at spy school when I was teamed up with Squeak.’
‘Stuff and nonsense,’ said Sir Edmund. ‘Bartholomew is a perfectly good name. Very dignified.’ He slipped the photograph and the silver medallion back into his bottom desk drawer and locked it.
Glory eyed the empty plastic tube that had just delivered her friends. ‘What the heck is that thing?’
A pleased look appeared on Sir Edmund’s face. ‘I take it you haven’t anything like it back in America?’
Glory shook her head. ‘Not at the Spy Mice Agency, at least.’
‘Our very own Tube,’ said the head of MICE-6 proudly. ‘Pneumatic tube, that is. Runs on forced air. The humans used them years ago to route messages through the building. The system has long been in disuse, but I had our lab fire it up a few months ago. Very efficient mode of internal transportation.’
‘Like a cross between a submarine and a roller coaster,’ whispered Squeak to Glory, climbing up on to a cork beside her.
‘I think I’ll stick to my skateboard,’ Glory whispered back. She smiled at her friends. Squeak Savoy was a sleek grey house mouse. She was cheeky and bright – she’d graduated at the top of her class in spy school – and she and Glory had instantly taken a liking to each other when they’d met in New York. Bubble Westminster was stockier, with brown fur, and he wore a bow tie like his boss. A church mouse (Cathedral Guild), he was characteristically quiet, but stout-hearted and sharp as a tack.
‘I have a job for the three of you,’ said Sir Edmund. ‘It’s a local affair, something a bit out of our usual sphere of influence. But it involves one of Buckingham Palace’s pet projects, and they’ve ordered all paws on deck for this one.’
Buckingham Palace! Home of Britain’s royal mouse family! Glory’s elegant little ears perked up at this. This meant she was being asked to participate in – well, in a royal spy mission. She sat up a little straighter on her cork. Here it comes, she thought eagerly. The start of my glamorous overseas career!
‘It seems the city’s orphans have been disappearing at an alarming rate,’ explained Sir Edmund. ‘No one keeps accurate records of these street urchins, of course, and Scotland Yard is convinced they’re simply being scooped up by stray cats.’ The elder mouse frowned. ‘In any event, the situation has come to the attention of the Prince of Tails and the Duchess of Cornmeal. As patron and patroness of the Nibbleswick Home for Little Wanderers, their royal highnesses have a keen interest in the safety of London’s orphans. They’ve asked that all street mouselings be rounded up and either found proper homes or given permanent residence at Nibbleswick.’
Sir Edmund nodded at the three spy mice seated before him. ‘I’d like you to help with the investigation. Bartholomew, you’ll be out on the streets with the round-up team. Squeak and Glory, you’ll be assisting with the interrogations. It’s an assignment I feel calls for a feminine touch.’
Glory and Squeak exchanged a dubious glance.
‘These are orphans, after all. They may need a bit of mothering.’
Squeak rolled her eyes at Glory. Sir Edmund was quite old-fashioned, and he had set ideas about the roles that females – in particular house mice like Squeak and Glory (who was half house mouse, thanks to her bakery-bred mother) – should play. Her boss saw Squeak’s expression and frowned again. ‘I’ll expect the three of you to fulfil your assignments with complete professionalism,’ the head of MICE-6 said sharply. ‘Best take the Tube up to the roof. Your pigeons are waiting – you’re due at Scotland Yard within the hour.’
Bye-bye, royal spy mission, thought Glory glumly. Hello, dull police work. There was nothing glamorous about rounding up street mouselings. Nothing at all. With a sigh, she nodded obediently and hopped off her cork. So did Bubble and Squeak.
Behind them, the door to Sir Edmund’s office flew open with a bang. The head of MICE-6 whipped round. ‘Miss Honeyberry!’ he cried in exasperation. ‘How many times have I told you –’
‘Sir!’ his secretary interrupted breathlessly. ‘You need to see this!’ She scurried across the carpet and thrust a piece of paper into his paw. ‘Computer gymnasts just handed it in. It’s from Intertail. Marked For Your Paws Only and urgent!’
‘Thank you, Miss Honeyberry,’ said Sir Edmund, dismissing her.
Miss Honeyberry bustled out, and Glory gave Squeak and Bubble a worried glance. Intertail was the French equivalent of the Spy Mice Agency and MICE-6. Glory wondered what message could be so important that it needed to be marked both top secret and urgent.
‘Oh, my,’ said Sir Edmund softly as he scanned the note. Something about his tone of voice sent a shiver down Glory’s spine. Sir Edmund looked up. He regarded them sombrely. ‘Brie de Sorbonne was just spotted outside a boulangerie in Paris.’
The three agents looked at each other, aghast.
‘But I thought –’ said Glory.
‘Didn’t we –’ said Bubble.
‘Didn’t they –’ said Squeak.
Sir Edmund shook his head. ‘Apparently not,’ he replied. ‘According to this report, a Norwegian trawler dropped anchor in Oslo this morning. The Dagmar Elisabeth. She was carrying the Mayflower balloon in her hold. Her captain found it floating in the North Sea. Our computer gymnasts picked up the news on the Internet just as the message from Intertail came through.’
The head of MICE-6 stared at them, his round black eyes deadly serious. ‘If Brie survived, chances are the others did as well,’ he said quietly. ‘You’ll need to watch your tails. It appears that the rats are back.’
