Fennymore and the Brumella by Kirsten Reinhardt Page A

mean?
    Then something occurred to him, something very important. He rushed past Hubert and Fenibald, who was bleating, ‘Hubert, honey-pie.’ In the hallway, he slipped on the rag rug and went sailing into the kitchen, his arms flailing.
    The drawers of the old kitchen cabinet had been pulled out and the contents lay scattered on the floor – multicoloured rubber bands, the little paper flags that Fennymore always stuck in his banana-splits, dried-out conkers from last autumn and all kinds of knives, forks and coloured plastic ice-cream spoons. Even the oven was open and there were wisps of hay everywhere. Only the old waste-bin was exactly as Fennymore had left it. The lid was closed and there were no banana skins or pâté wrappings lying near it. Fennymore’s heart pounded. He took off the lid and looked inside.
    Under a vanilla ice-cream tub lurked the corner of the tea-towel in which Fennymore had wrapped the vinegar-chocolate tin. Relief spread through him. Encouraged, he reached into the bin and pulled out the chocolate tin. A pungent smell reached his nostrils.
    Fennymore unwrapped the tin quickly, threw the tea-towel back in the bin and banged it closed. Done! But then he saw something – something that should not be in his kitchen. The polished toes of two shoes were jutting out from behind the bin, pointing right at him. The left toe was tapping impatiently up and down.
    â€˜Harrumph,’ went a deep voice.
    Fennymore looked up and into the face of Dr Hourgood. Two little light-blue eyes smouldered under his bushy eyebrows. But there was no sign of the jolly doctor face that Fennymore was familiar with. There was something cold about the look the doctor gave him.
    â€˜Well done, my dear Fennymore,’ said the doctor with pointed politeness, ‘for opening that bucket for me. That will spare my calf-skin gloves.’
    He looked around, wrinkling his nose, and gently stroked his hands, which were encased in cream-coloured gloves. Then he stretched them out towards Fennymore.
    Fennymore clutched the chocolate tin desperately and stared at the doctor with his lips tightly pressed together.
    â€˜Well, well, well,’ said the doctor. ‘I didn’t come all this way for nothing.’

    A fat gloved hand shot out and made a grab for the chocolate tin. ‘Hand that over, if you please.’
    At that moment, Fennymore woke out of a daze.
    He turned on his heel and started to run out of the kitchen, but the door was closed. He rattled the door handle, but it was useless. Locked.
    Dr Hourgood gave a soft laugh. ‘You haven’t a chance against me,’ he said quietly. ‘It would be best if you just gave me the tin.’
    Fennymore looked around wildly. The window over the sink – would he make it? But he had no time to think. He took a leap and landed with one foot in the washing-up basin. Crrrrrack! The dishes. He almost lost his balance, but then he yanked the old wooden window open and, with the box clamped under his chin, he jumped down onto the soft lawn.
    As soon as he had pulled himself together, Fennymore gave the two-finger dachshund whistle as loudly as he could. Hopefully Monbijou and the others would hear him and realise he was in danger.

CHAPTER 15
    In which Fennymore tries to read a message
    Fennymore had made it safely onto the roof of The Bronx. He was still gasping for air. It hadn’t been easy to get up here with the tin in one hand. Why hadn’t the others come to his help? Had they not heard his whistle?
    At least he had saved Aunt Elsie’s chocolate tin. It was lying next to him on the buckled roofing felt. He rubbed his finger over its tin surface. Where he’d rubbed the dirt away, the lime-green colour of the tin and the logo of the vinegar-chocolate company appeared. Why on earth was Dr Hourgood so keen to get hold of this tin?
    Then Fennymore heard the creak of the front door from below him. He lay on his tummy on the