The League of Beastly Dreadfuls Book 1, page 14
Anastasia, watching from her shadow, saw that the mouse was trembling. Anastasia was trembling, too. She was afraid for that mouse.
“Now, I’m not going to end your pathetic little life right this minute,” the Baron went on, his voice soft. “I’m going to give you the chance of a lifetime, mouse. I’m actually going to help you to the floor, and then you’re going to scamper back to your mouse brothers and sisters and tell them the Mouse Destroyer is here. I’m doing this because I like a challenge, not because I like you or any of your filthy friends. I like a challenge and so I’m giving you a head start. I’m going to count to one hundred, mouse, and then ready or not”—he grinned, showing strong white teeth—“here I come.”
While he was talking, he reached up ever so slowly and then brought his hand down over the mouse and closed his fingers around it. Anastasia was gobsmacked. Why hadn’t the mouse somersaulted out of reach? The old ladies were gobsmacked, too. Prude’s mouth was hanging open, and she was gazing at the Baron in frank admiration.
“Down you go,” the Baron said, bending down and setting the mouse carefully on the floor. The mouse didn’t move. It blinked at the Baron in a kind of daze.
“One,” the Baron said.
And the mouse zinged right out of the hall before he could utter two.
“How on earth did you do that?” Prude asked. “It’s like the horrid thing could understand you!”
“Ladies, I’ve made a career out of mouse squashing,” the Baron replied. “I’ve squelched millions of the little sods. It’s my passion. It’s my calling. I’ve chased mice from New Zealand to London to the Bronx. And believe me, that mouse did understand me.”
“You said the Department of Health sent you?” Prim asked, her voice suspicious.
“No, no,” the Baron replied. “The Department of Health traced the mouse infestation to this house. I have a friend who works there. Tom Sogwind. You may know him?”
The old ladies shook their heads.
“Well, Tommy knows about my talent, and he gave me a tip. The Department of Health is going to pay you a visit next week, unless you get your mouse problem under control.” The Baron grimaced. “I can assure you, you don’t want the Department of Health tromping around your lovely home. They’re very—ahem—thorough. They rummage through all your most private places. They peer into every cupboard and closet. I’ve heard they even read diaries.”
“Not our diaries!” Prude said.
“Now, I could help you out,” the Baron said. “I would be glad to. And then you wouldn’t have to deal with all those bothersome bureaucrats.”
“The problem is,” Prim said, “we can’t pay you.”
“We haven’t any money,” Prude explained sadly.
“Money!” the Baron echoed. “Money! Who said anything about money? I don’t need money. I’m filthy rich as it is. What I need,” he said, “is mouse blood. I’m like a tiger, ladies. A mouse-stalking tiger. Tigers don’t expect to be paid for hunting, do they?”
And with his gleaming green eyes and ginger-colored whiskers, he did look rather like a fine tiger.
“I love the hunt,” the Baron went on. “I offer my service free of charge.” His smile went away, and his brow furrowed. “Perhaps I should explain why I despise mice so much,” he said. “I wouldn’t want you to think I’m some kind of nut. Let me tell you a little story from my military days. I used to have ten magnificent toes, ladies. Wonderfully masculine toes with perfectly square nails, and I trimmed them and cleaned them every single day after the marches.”
“Used to have?” Prude said. “What happened to your magnificent toes?”
“Did you step on a land mine?” Prim asked, sneaking a look at the Baron’s shiny boots.
“No, I did not,” the Baron said. “I woke up one morning to find that mice had chewed off my toes, each and every one.”
Anastasia, who had never worried about that kind of problem, flexed her toes inside her galoshes. They all seemed to be accounted for.
“So you can understand why I hate mice, and why I devote my life to stomping them,” he said darkly. “Revenge. Revenge is a delicious dish, ladies, and I like to eat often.”
Prim slid the knitting needle into her coat pocket and said, “Won’t you come in for a cup of tea?”
“I should be delighted to.” And he tromped into the room, the soles of his glossy black boots squishing hundreds of little mouse droppings.
“You will forgive us,” Prim said, “if we ask you to turn out your pockets and open your trunk.”
“We’re not in the habit of letting strangers in,” Prude warbled.
“Forgive you?” the Baron said. “Why, I admire you. One can never be too cautious, I always say.” He pulled the pockets of his trousers inside out so they dangled from his hips like cotton tongues. He unbuttoned his military jacket to display the silk lining. He even opened his mouth and said Ahh. The old ladies peered at his teeth, nodding appreciatively.
“Nice, aren’t they?” he asked. “I’m particularly proud of my molars. And you’ll find my tonsils are in order, too.” Then he set his trunk down with a thump and undid the clasps and flipped the lid up. “This, mesdemoiselles, is my Mouse Murdering Trunk.”
“Ooooooooh,” breathed Prim and Prude.
Inside the suitcase was nothing more than a round, smooth yellow wheel of cheese the size of a small tire.
“Do you see this cheese?” he asked. “It looks rather delectable, doesn’t it? It’s very special, this cheese.”
“It smells lovely,” Prude sighed. “Is that Swiss?”
“Don’t be a twit,” Prim said. “Do you see any holes?”
“No,” Prude admitted.
“Why is this cheese so special, Baron?” Prim asked.
“Because,” the Mouse Destroyer said, snapping his trunk closed again, “we’re going to use this beautiful lump of cheese to murder every single rotten mouse stinking up this house, or at least the ones I don’t trounce before they get a nibble. Now, I believe you mentioned tea.”
The kidnappers led the Baron off into the gloom of the asylum.
Murder the mice! It was disgusting! Anastasia quivered with the need to escape. And then she noticed that, in all the excitement of the arrival of the handsome Mouse Destroyer and his demonstration of mouse-intimidation techniques and the inspection of his molars and murderous cheese, the front door had been left slightly ajar.
She ran down the stairwell and out to the porch. She couldn’t leave right that moment, of course. She couldn’t abandon Quentin and Ollie. But Anastasia had something else in mind.
She hotfooted it to the pink station wagon and flung open the driver’s-side door. Her hand darted in and clamped over the gate opener. Her head swiveled toward the iron spikes of the electric fence.
“What the biscuit?” she muttered.
The Mouse Destroyer had strolled, supposedly, through the open front gates, but the fence ahead loomed as grim and locked as ever. She stared in puzzlement. And then she gave a little jump. The poodles had scented her and were galloping her way!
Lickety-split, Anastasia clambered back up the stairs and over the mirrored stoop and nicked into the asylum. The poodles prowled at the base of the front steps, twitching their fuzzy lips and displaying their nasty metal chompers. Anastasia let out a woozy sigh of relief, shoving the gate opener into her coat pocket.
Then she raced through the hallways and tiptoed up the spiral staircase to the Watchtower. She peeked around the doorjamb.
The Baron was gazing at the asylum grounds. “Splendid bog you have there,” he said before accepting a cup of tea from Prude and settling upon an ottoman. “Give me forty-eight hours, ladies. Forty-eight hours, and you won’t have a single mouse left in this charming home. Not only that, but no mouse will ever again dare to darken your doorway.”
“You sound very confident,” Prim said.
“Oh, I am,” the Baron said. “My mouse-stomping methods are foolproof. See these medals, girls?” He pointed to the buttons on his lapel. “I didn’t survive the war on sheer good looks alone. I had to be cunning. I had to be quick. And even though I left the military after the war, I never stopped fighting. Now my war is on mice.” He swigged his tea in one great swallow. Then he stood up, stroking his mustache and pacing the tower like the mouse-hunting tiger he was. “Forty-eight hours. Are you with me, ladies?”
Prude’s hopeful eyes stared into Prim’s cloudy blue ones. Prim sighed and nodded.
“Excellent.” The Baron grinned at them and sat down again. His voice became warm and conversational. “So, what are two pretty girls like you doing all by yourselves in this great big house?”
The Watchers exchanged another look.
“We aren’t exactly alone,” Prude said.
“No?”
“Well,” Prude said reluctantly, “aside from a gardener with biting madness, we do have a little girl living here.”
“A niece,” said Prim.
“A niece, eh? Well, tell her to stay clear of me. I hate mouse pests and I hate pesky children. Actually…” The Baron stroked his chin. “Perhaps I could use her help. A little girl could squeeze into small places to set out the Liquid Death. It’s powerful stuff. Burns right through the skin.”
Anastasia’s freckly hide tingled just hearing about it. Liquid Death?
“I’m sure she’ll be happy to help you,” Prim said.
“I don’t care whether she’s happy about it or not,” the Baron said, extracting a small square of lace from his vest pocket and blotting his mustache with it. “I’m ready for battle. Let’s go meet this nauseating little niece of yours, shall we?”
23
The Black Envelope
ANASTASIA FLEW DOWN the tower stairs and galoshed through the corridors to the Great Hall, not even stopping to catch her breath before pounding up the front staircase. She was, after all, supposed to be in her room. Most unfortunately, she slipped on a patch of mold fuzzing the third step from the top and slid all the way back down to the bottom, sprawling painfully in the dust just as Prim and Prude and the Mouse Destroyer rounded the corner.
“Is this more of your yoga nonsense?” Prude cried. “Stand up and meet the Baron von Bilgeworth. He’s here to help us with our mouse problem.”
“And you are going to help him,” said Prim.
“I shall call her,” the Baron declared, stroking his mustache, “Reginald.”
“Reginald?” Prim echoed.
“Reginald,” he said. “That was the name of one of my sergeants back in the war. Just like you, he had millions of nasty little freckles.”
“I don’t have millions,” Anastasia said hoarsely. “I’ve got exactly one hundred twenty-seven.”
“But that isn’t why you remind me of him. Do you know why I remember Reginald after all these years?”
Anastasia was so frightened that she could only let out a little squeak.
“I remember him,” the Baron said, “because I shot him in the back as he was running away. I don’t like cowards.”
“Oh,” Anastasia yawped. She staggered to her feet.
The Baron dropped his Mouse Murdering Trunk in front of her, almost squashing her ten intact toes. “Now,” he announced, “it’s time to cook up the Liquid Death.” He turned to Prim and Prude with a charming smile. “Reginald and I have lots of preparations to make, and most of them are rather unpleasant. You two should run along and do whatever it is attractive and fun-loving ladies enjoy doing, and Reggie and I will get started with our work.”
“Can’t we help you with anything?” Prude asked.
“Just show us to the kitchen,” the Baron replied cheerfully. “And once we’re in there, I’d advise you to stay out. Liquid Death fumes are pretty toxic. I’ve built up a tolerance, but I wouldn’t be surprised if every last strand of Reginald’s hair fell out by morning.”
Not three minutes later, Prim and Prude were back up in their glass tower, and Anastasia was left alone with the Mouse Destroyer beneath the pointy tips of the knives dangling from the kitchen ceiling. She stared at the floor tiles. She swallowed hard.
“It’s wrong to hurt animals,” she said. “It’s despicable. You’re bigger than me and maybe I can’t stop you from doing whatever awful thing you’re about to do, but I’m not going to help you. And I don’t care what you do to me.”
This last part was, of course, a whopping great lie. She cared very much what fate awaited her at the hands of the Baron von Bilgeworth. She was scared silly.
“Anastasia,” the Baron said softly.
Her head snapped up.
The Mouse Destroyer was studying her carefully. “You poor child.” His voice was quiet and gentle, and his face was gentle, too. “Those two crab apples have been treating you very badly, haven’t they?”
Anastasia hadn’t known what exactly to expect from the Mouse Destroyer, but it certainly hadn’t been that. She gazed at him in utter bewilderment.
“They’re monsters,” the Baron went on. “Absolutely mean old meanies.” And then a really astonishing thing happened. His eyes grew very, very shiny, and then tears began slipping down his cheeks until his beautiful mustache was soggy. He sat down on his Mouse Murdering Trunk. Now his shining green eyes were level with Anastasia’s round brown ones.
“My dear girl,” the Baron said, “please forgive me for saying all those terrible things just a minute ago. But you see, I had to do it. I had to convince those crab apples that I could do their dirty job of mouse murdering. It was the only way to get into the house.”
“How,” Anastasia said slowly, “did you know my name?”
“You must forget all those things that I said,” the Baron went on. “Let me promise you that I have never squashed a mouse. Can you believe me? Can you?”
Now, you can probably understand that Anastasia might have been an eensie bit skeptical. Primrose and Prudence, for example, seemed like two pink-cheeked specimens of sweet-little-old-ladyhood, but they were, in fact, two mouse-hating, child-snatching murderers. If Anastasia had never trusted anyone again, it would be sad but completely understandable.
But, dear Reader, here is the interesting and inspiring thing: she did believe the Baron von Bilgeworth. Looking at him now, she knew that he would never hurt anyone small and innocent, whether furry mouse or stinky kid. “I believe you,” she said.
He smiled at her. Then he took out his lace hankie and blotted his eyes and mustache. “Listen,” he said, “we have to get you out of here. This loony bin is no place for a child.”
Anastasia nodded vigorously.
“We can’t leave just now,” the Baron said. “We have to wait until tonight. In the meantime, we must keep up the charade that I am a cruel mouse exterminator, or those two nasty prunes will send me away and you’ll be left all alone with them again.”
Technically, Anastasia reasoned, she wouldn’t be all alone. She would have Ollie and Quentin. But beholding the strong and kind man before her, she felt much better about all the holes in the Beastly Dreadfuls’ escape plan.
The Baron broke into her thoughts. “In fact, they might be wondering why they can’t hear any shouting or smacking or general mouse murdering. So let’s give them a little show, shall we?” His eyes were now gleaming with mischief and merriment. He unhooked his riding crop from his belt and slammed it down on the countertop with a CRASH. “You toe-chewing scum!” he bellowed at the top of his lungs. “You fur-covered menace! Die, worm-tailed rotter! Death to mice!”
Of course, the Baron was not actually assaulting any mice. He wasn’t even touching them. A group of about twenty mice watched from a stack of dishes piled in the sink, their eyes bright and curious. But Prim and Prude heard the thumping and screaming all the way up in their glass tower. They smiled nastily at each other and continued to knit.
“A pox on rodents!” the Baron shouted.
Then he sat down on the trunk again and held his hand out flat with the palm up. He made a noise in the back of his manly throat, and one of the mice galloped across the floor and leapt right into his hand.
“Well done, you,” the Baron said to it.
The mouse squeaked.
“Good, good,” the Baron said. “I was worried, of course.” He stroked the mouse’s back with his index finger, and the mouse closed its eyes and sighed.
“Can that mouse actually understand you?” Anastasia yelped.
“Indeed she can,” the Baron said.
“But how? Are these mice your—your pets or something?” Anastasia had once read a story about a circus of performing mice. The ringleader had trained each and every mouse to do wonderful things like riding tiny unicycles and squeaking Christmas carols.
“These mice and I know each other very well,” the Baron said. “Let’s just say that this mouse infiltration was a joint effort.”
“You let the mice loose in the house?”
“Something like that. Now,” he went on, “we’ll leave tonight.”
“But, Mr. von Bilgeworth,” Anastasia said, “why did you even come here in the first place? If you aren’t a Mouse Destroyer, why exactly are you here?”
He looked very grave. The mouse flipped onto its back, and the Baron tickled its tummy. “Because I knew you were here, Anastasia,” he said. “I came to help you escape.”
She mulled this over. It sounded extraordinary, but it didn’t feel extraordinary. Somehow it made sense. Whereas it had felt totally wrong when Prim and Prude had lured her from Mooselick Elementary, it felt weirdly right that the Baron von Bilgeworth and his army of mice had arrived at St. Agony’s Asylum to help her.
“How did you know I was here?” Her heart thumped a hopeful little tattoo. “Did my parents send you? Are you some kind of detective?”
The Baron shook his head. “No, child,” he said. “Your parents didn’t send me, and I’m not a detective. Although I do enjoy detective stories.”
“But how do you know who I am?”
His green eyes twinkled at her. “We’ve been looking for you,” he said, “ever since the moment those two nasty prunes whisked you away from Mooselick Elementary. We tracked you to this dreary pile of bricks.”
