Casper Candlewacks in Death by Pigeon! Read online

  Chapter 10

  Another Village of Idiots

  Most villages have an idiot. The village of Upper Crustenbury has hundreds. I’m not just saying that; it really is full of them. Upper Crustenbury sits happily in the Kobb Valley, mainly minding its own business and trying to get a tan. Situated only sixteen miles up the road from Corne-on-the-Kobb, the villagers of Upper Crustenbury consider themselves to be of a higher sort than their idiotic neighbours, so they wear cleaner clothes and drive bigger cars to prove it. They also snort when they laugh, sport shiny shoes and even get a man in to do the gardening; all the sort of stuff that would show off to others how important they are.

  Upper Crustenbury and Corne-onthe-Kobb have a long history of rivalry. The infamous Battle of the Kobb began in August 1481 because of a disagreement over the best way to describe the taste of a particular piece of cheese. The battle was a hard-fought and bloody campaign. In 1484, after three years, thousands of casualties and no obvious gain for either side, the battle was ruled a ‘no contest’ and it was agreed that the cheese tasted mild and creamy. A friendly archery match in 1615 between two Kobb friends turned nasty when the Upper Crustenburian insulted the Corne-on-the-Kobbite’s shooting stance. The companions began launching arrows at each other, and this grew into a full-scale skirmish that lasted for many weeks. (Luckily, as neither was a very good shot, the whole thing ended when they ran out of arrows and got bored.) The first ever Annual Inter-Kobb Football Match in 1924 was similarly violent. It became such a bloodbath that eventually the police were called in. (The police won the match, 6-4-3.)

  It goes without saying, then, that the two villages don’t get on particularly well. It’s a shame really because they have so much in common. As a wise man once said, “Idiots must stick together lest they be eaten by massive bears, or angry stoats, or other furry things with teeth.” Having said that, the wise man wasn’t really very wise. Legend says he got eaten by a massive bear, or an angry stoat, or some other furry thing with teeth.

  Chapter 10.1

  Murder in the Marquee

  Casper Candlewacks’s day was getting better very quickly. Very, very quickly, in fact. About as quickly as the speed of a certain buggy driven by Lamp Flannigan. The boys scorched down the country road in the Bubbel Buggy (leaving behind a frothy trail of lemon-fresh bubble exhaust), howling with joy, the thrill of the ride leaving no free space in their little brains to worry about what lay ahead. As soon as they had left Corne-on-the-Kobb the rain had subsided and the late evening sun was now peeping over the horizon like a cheeky lion in a game of hide-and-seek. For a few welcome minutes Casper was completely distracted from the scrunching worry that languished at the pit of his stomach like a chunk of unchewed pork chop. To top it all, he didn’t even have to wear a seatbelt. (Even if he had wanted to wear a seatbelt he couldn’t have because Lamp had forgotten to attach any. There were, however, holders for ice-cream cones in case they stopped for one, so that was OK.)

  Casper whooped and punched the air. He was boy adventurer Casper Candlewacks, saving the world once more with his sidekick, gadget-man Lamp Flannigan. “We need superhero outfits,” shouted Casper.

  “Can mine glow in the dark?” said Lamp.

  “Course it can.”

  The road broadened into a quiet street, leading into the centre of Upper Crustenbury.

  “Ahh, look at that sunset,” said Lamp, leaning back into the comfy leather sofa, hands behind his head.

  “Lamp! Watch the road!”

  Lamp looked down, yelped and swerved wildly to the right, only just avoiding a small hedgehog that was fast asleep on the sun-warmed tarmac and dreaming of crunchy beetles. But his steering had driven the boys off the road and right through a tidy little front lawn. Casper screamed as the Bubbel Buggy veered left again, back on to the road and straight off again on the other side, crushing another front garden and destroying a quaint little community of garden gnomes.

  “Use the brakes!” Casper shouted.

  “I can’t! There aren’t any!”

  They clattered through a wooden fence, shooting splintered planks and flecks of mud in every direction. Lamp grappled with the toilet seat and swung to the right, but he steered too far and the Bubbel Buggy twisted back on itself and tore up the same garden, squashing any gnomes that had escaped the first salvo.

  Dodging a garden shed, the boys ploughed through a washing line full of clothes, and Lamp found himself tangled up in a rather fetching pair of woollen tights (which, incidentally, were just his size). Casper screamed as the Bubbel Buggy careered up a grassy slope and down the other side, almost flipping itself over. It cannoned through another fence and on to a wide village green, heading directly for a large white marquee in the centre. Casper grabbed the toilet seat and spun it to the left, but it came straight off in his hands.

  “Lamp! The steering wheel!”

  Lamp was still struggling with the tights.

  Casper looked in terror from the toilet seat in his hands to the oncoming marquee. “I can’t steer!”

  The Bubbel Buggy piled head-on into the marquee, ripping through the canvas and coming to an abrupt halt inside.

  “Let’s park here,” said Lamp. He spotted the detached toilet seat in Casper’s hand and tutted loudly. “That’s where it is!” he said, and slotted it back on its axle.

  Casper exhaled and let his head drop, relieved that he was in one piece and not sloshed around the village like an exploded jar of pasta sauce.

  The boys shakily alighted from their battered buggy and fell to the ground, exhausted. Casper raised his eyes for the first time and noticed their strange surroundings. The marquee had been set out as if for a party, with long lines of trestle tables covered by green paper tablecloths. Green plates and cups marked out the places, and every so often along the tables was a large glass bottle of green liquid. The marquee itself had been adorned with huge garlands of leafy herbs, and even more herbs had been strewn on the ground to make a sort of forest floor. Around the edges were sculptures of historical figures, constructed entirely out of herbs. There was Herb Napoleon, Herb Winston Churchill and the full line-up of Herby Spice Girls. A stage had been constructed (out of herbs) at the end of the marquee and it too was covered in herbs – buckets of the stuff in fact. Centre stage there was a herby jacket that was hung up on a herby hanger right next to a massive herby hat. Behind that, at the back of the stage, sat a bath, filled to the brim with a great big heap of herbs (for a change). The whole place had a familiar, fragrant smell that Casper just couldn’t place.

  Lamp was munching on some floor-herbs. “Mm,” he slopped, “what ish thish shtuff?”

  “Come on, Lamp,” said Casper, picking himself up from the floor. “We have to get to The Great Tiramisu before he leaves the village.”

  “But we haven’t had dinner, and it’s…” Lamp looked at his watch and frowned, “it’s dinnertime.”

  “Not now. Come on!” Casper raced away, dragging Lamp begrudgingly behind him. Lamp managed to stuff a handful of floor-herbs into his pocket before Casper could pull him out of the marquee and off in search of The Great Tiramisu.

  Alone in the marquee, the washing-up liquid engine of the Bubbel Buggy ticked over obediently and a little plume of bubbles spewed out of the exhaust pipe, adding to the ever-growing pile of soapy froth that was building up behind the back wheels. The pile grew and grew, as more and more foam coughed out of the back of the little buggy…

  “Where are those hoodlums going in such a blithering hurry?” asked a disgruntled Lord Quentin de Llanbarton-Smithe, as two raggedy boys hurtled past the gravel drive of his semi-detached mansion, in which he currently sat with his wife, Lady Gwynette de Llanbarton-Smithe, enjoying a spot of supper. Like every meal eaten by the upper classes, tonight’s menu was tea and scones. Lord and Lady de Llanbarton-Smithe were not born into the aristocracy; in order to fit in with all the other lords and ladies in Upper Crustenbury they bought their titles off the Internet.

&
nbsp; “Himph!” Lady Gwynette snorted. “It’s a positive miracle I didn’t spill my tea, what with all those ruffians making all that racket. Himph!” She put down her tea and sniffed the air with disgust. “Oh, my, and the smell of them,” she said, and covered her nose with her lavender-scented handkerchief.

  Lord Quentin nodded sagely. “Fetid, my dear, quite fetid.” He took a measured bite of his jam-laden scone. “Delinquents like that shouldn’t be allowed, not in this day and age.”

  “I blame the government,” said Lady Gwynette, scowling. “It’s a positive outrage.” She shook her head, sipped her tea and concluded, “Himph!”

  “Another scone, darling?”

  “Oh, but Quenty, I positively mustn’t,” warbled Lady Gwynette. She eyed the plate of cakes hungrily. “Oh, all right, you jolly well forced my arm. I shall just have a teensy little one,” and she took the largest, jammiest scone on the plate.

  Chapter 11

  Telling Tiramisu

  As the last of the sun disappeared below the horizon, the boys sprinted towards the village hall, soapy feet pounding on the cobbled streets (which is good because the cobbled streets needed a good wash, actually). “Come on, Lamp!” called Casper, stopping for a moment to catch his breath and to let his chubby companion catch up.

  Lamp lumbered towards Casper, gasping for air and sweating like a chipmunk in an oven. He wasn’t too good at running. He wasn’t even particularly good at walking. (He’d never tried skipping, but he doubted he’d be much better at that.) “Sorry, Casper.” He slowed to a stop and leant on a wall. “It’s my asthma.”

  “Lamp, you don’t have asthma.”

  “Then it’s my eczema.”

  “But eczema doesn’t do that!”

  “Mine does.”

  Casper shook his head. “Look, it doesn’t matter. We have to go!” He fought the aching in his legs and set off down the next street and on to the cobbled village square, with Lamp panting away not far behind. Spotting the village hall at the other corner, Casper was horrified to see the final trickle of haughty Upper Crustenburians trotting out of the doors, honking away about “The Great Tiramisu’s spiffing wand action”. The show had ended, but The Great Tiramisu was nowhere to be seen.

  “Quick, Lamp, we might be too late.” Casper ran over to an elderly woman standing by the village hall, who looked like a wrinkly horse with a tweed suit and jodhpurs, while Lamp staggered on behind.

  “Excuse me, miss…”

  The woman flared her gigantic nostrils. “What ho, chappies!”

  Casper noticed that her shoes didn’t match. “Can you tell us where to find The Great Tiramisu?”

  “Where’ve you been? On the jolly moon?” She threw her head back and guffawed. “He’s gorn to the marquee for the coriander festival.”

  “The what?” Casper’s heart did a backflip.

  “Coriander, Casper,” explained Lamp. He reached into his pocket and pulled out some of the floor-herbs. “This stuff.”

  Casper took a pinch and sniffed it. That familiar scent filled his nostrils again, and as it wafted through the air a memory jarred in Casper’s brain like a tone-deaf cat jumping on a piano. “Coriander…”

  Lamp guzzled a massive mouthful and chewed gratefully. “Ichh ruvvry.”

  “No, Lamp, it’s coriander!”

  He still wasn’t getting it.

  “Look, swallow your herbs and listen to me.”

  Lamp did as he was told (it took about four gulps – it was a very large mouthful) and smiled at Casper.

  “Right, The Great Tiramisu is about to step inside a marquee filled with coriander. There’s enough inside there to make his head explode…”

  Casper thought he could hear a slow clicking noise in Lamp’s head, followed by something like the clang of a ship’s bell. Lamp shuffled backwards, struck by the news. “…and if he doesn’t have a head, he won’t be able to lift the curse!”

  “There’s only one thing for it,” said Casper determinedly. “We run again, now!”

  “Oh, no,” groaned Lamp. “More running.” He trundled off after Casper, who was already halfway back across the square.

  “Pip pip!” shouted the tweedy woman, waving heartily, and then she cantered off home to chomp on a sugar cube.

  Back raced the two heroes, over the cobbled streets, past the gravel drives and perfectly trimmed hedges; the greatest double act since Batman and Robin, Butch and Sundance, Kylie and Jason, Bill and Ben…

  Purple-faced and puffing like a blueberry smoking a pipe, Lamp slowed to a halt and grabbed his stomach. “I… can’t… go on…”

  “It’s fine,” said Casper. “It’s just round this corner.” They staggered the few final steps to the end of the street, but as they glimpsed the village green, lit by hundreds of herby lanterns, Casper’s heart sank. They were greeted with the belly-wrenching sight of the amassed gaggle of snooty Upper-Crustenburians gathering at the entrance to the marquee, bustling about, babbling to each other in high-pitched whinnies and shooing away the upper-class pigeons that had come for a spot of supper. They were headed by a staggeringly posh mayor and the evil curse-caster himself, The Great Tiramisu, ever-resplendent moustache glistening in the lantern-light like a well-groomed toilet brush. He smiled regally and outstretched his arms, knocking over a little boy asking for his autograph.

  Lord Octavius Wimperly-Fescott the Third (Mayor of Upper Crustenbury, Marquis of Leith and Owner of Money) clasped his hands together and briskly cleared his throat. He spoke in a series of nasal squawks and hoots, with such an impeccably posh accent that it would have made the royal family sound common.

  “Ahem. Most distinguished guests, Dukes and Duchesses, Barons and Baronesses, Viscounts and—”

  “Thank you, thank you. You are-a too kind.” The Great Tiramisu barged Mayor Wimperly-Fescott out of the way with a well-placed elbow jab. “You are-a most honoured to have-a me here. My performance was, I think you will agree, magnifico.”

  The crowd responded with hoots of approval; an eager chap at the front with a waistcoat and far too many teeth, proclaimed, “Hear hear!”

  “And now,” continued the mayor, who was so posh that he wore two bow ties, “it gives me the utmost gratification to bequeath upon you a little surprise.” He waltzed towards the opening of the marquee.

  “STOP! Don’t open up that marquee,” came a shout from the back of the crowd. The villagers screeched with confusion and whisked around to see a small, scruffy, blond-haired boy frantically pushing his way through the mob, smelling of lemon and rather red in the face. Following behind him was his equally fragrant companion, sporting a boiler suit and clutching his ribs.

  Casper spoke up again. “You mustn’t open it up! Tiramisu, listen to me, it’ll kill you.” The crowd was aghast; many of the ladies screamed theatrically and fell into their husbands’ arms. One lady, who forgot that she didn’t have a husband, fell flat on her back.

  Mayor Wimperly-Fescott was about as happy as a puppy with a paper cut. His chest swelled, his lips pursed. “I do beg your blithering pardon?”

  “Si,” said The Great Tiramisu. “What you mean, ‘kill-a me’?”

  “I mean just that,” said Casper. “What’s in that marquee – it’ll kill you. I beg you, please don’t go in there.” More gasps arose from the villagers.

  “You!” The Great Tiramisu bristled his moustache. “You are the dirty bambini from Corne-on-the-Kobb.”

  With idiotic eyebrows raised, the villagers began to whisper. The whispers gradually built into murmurs and the murmurs grew into angry yells.

  “Corne-on-the-Kobb? Poor show.”

  “How very coarse; why are they here?”

  “Those ragamuffins are trying to ruin our festival.”

  “I say we jolly well throw them out.”

  “They need a good flogging, I’ll warrant.”

  “Tar-and-feather them!”

  “Chop orf their heads!”

  Two young men with floppy hair and wel
lies stepped forward and grabbed hold of Casper and Lamp by the scruff of their necks with vice-like neck-scruff grips. They dragged them out of the back of the crowd and dropped them coldly to the grass. Exhausted and defeated, the boys didn’t get up.

  “We’ve lost, Lamp.” Casper looked at his friend emptily. “They’re not going to listen to us. After all we’ve done, we’ve still lost.”

  “Hang on,” said Lamp, rooting around in the grass. “I’ll see if I can find a four-leafed clover. That’ll sort things out.”

  Casper slammed his fist to the ground in anger. “It’s not fair! We could’ve saved my dad, but now he’s pigeon feed and it’s all my fault!” Casper held his head in his hands and pressed his eyes shut, trying with every speck of his remaining energy not to cry, but the tears forced themselves through. He imagined his father being led towards the pigeon cage, looking out for his beloved son, waiting for some heroic plan that would save the day. He imagined the looks on the faces of the idiotic villagers, whooping madly at every pigeon peck. He imagined the future – having to get a job, pay the bills and look after Amanda and Cuddles. It was all over now. Casper was scared, crushed and alone.

  Lamp hadn’t found a four-leafed clover. He had, however, found a stag beetle, and was poking it with a twig, which he’d also found.

  “And now, oh Great Tiramisu,” announced Mayor Wimperly-Fescott, tooting tunefully, “without further intrusion, I shall continue. We, the hallowed residents of Upper Crustenbury, welcome you as distinguished guest of honour at our wondrous festival of…” and with a flourish the mayor ripped open the marquee’s awning. Instantly a dense wall of soapy froth flopped out of the entrance, on to the grass at his feet. “…of… bubbles?”