The Ghastly Gerty Swindle With the Ghosts of Hungryhouse Lane by Sam McBratney Page B

pages. “This proves she knew what to steal; it’ll be good evidence in court. Muldoon!”
    Muldoon had just bolted under the bed. In spite of the bandage over his ear there was nothing wrong with his hearing. And he had heard the dreadful fall of footsteps outside the bedroom. Hardly had Zoereplaced the book on the bedside table when she turned and saw Gertrude Moag’s large frame filling the doorway.
    â€œAnd what the devil are you two snoopers doing in my bedroom, may I ask?”
    Seeing those fat folded arms and those quivering chins, Zoe almost blurted out the truth even though she knew what a disaster this could be; but Charlie spoke up.
    â€œWe’re looking for our dog. He got lost.”
    â€œDog! That unclean brute is in
here
to piddle all over the place?”
    Gertrude Moag glanced down, saw her beaten-up slipper, spotted the tip of snout poking out from under the bed, and smiled, showing her teeth.
    â€œCome on out, my little pet. Gerty wants to show a bad little doggy-woggy what happens when he won’t do what he’s told.”
    Muldoon, who was no fool, passed her like a dark brown blur, followed smartly by Charlie and Zoe.
    â€œAnd if I see that fleabag in here again, he’s gonna need
real
bandages!” cried Gertrude Moag.
    Although her heart was beating much more quickly than it should have been, Zoe paused at the door to speak her mind as calmly as she could.
    â€œYou’re not a very polite person, Mrs. Moag,” she said.
    â€œPOLITE? I’LL POLITE YOU!” This mighty cry pursued them down the stairs.

    In the garden, deep among the lupins, they found Muldoon. He seemed pleased enough to see them, but had to be coaxed into the daylight after his narrow escape from death upstairs. As Zoe removed his ear bandage, the poor old dear’s heart thumped so madly that she gave him a strong cuddle.
    â€œOkay, Charlie, this means war. Fleabag, indeed! How are we going to nail her and stick her in jail for ten million years and a day?”
    Quite unexpectedly, Charlie came up with an answer immediately.
    â€œThere is a way, but we’ll have to stake out the phone.”
    â€œYou mean listen in? But how?”
    â€œTape her.” Charlie switched on his recorder and spoke into his palm. “Criminal Investigation Tape Number One, Side One. Charlie Sweet, Recording Engineer. Chief Suspect phones Sick Mother.”

11 …
    Fire!
    What a frightful situation to be in, thought Lady Cordelia McIntyre—to wake up somewhere else entirely different from where you thought you were, from where you jolly well ought to be, and not know how you got here! How awful to be so thoroughly helpless and … and
insubstantial.
She steered her graceful Presence toward a window (for light is always the best camouflage for a ghost) and looked around her.
    Well, perhaps it wasn’t too much of a shock. One way and another Cordelia had spent most of her two hundred years surrounded by old things (including, unfortunately, Sir James Walsingham), and this place clearly was no exception. On all sides she saw relics of other days around her: muskets, bed warmers, stuffed owls, quaint clothes and clogs, even a ship’s cannon which had surely once belonged on the deck of a stately man-of-war. In this place there were suchmountains of rugs, lamps, books, pictures and furniture that she might well have been in a gigantic attic—except that one did not find fireplaces in attics, of course. And this place was jam packed with them. Good gracious, how could it have become the fashion to collect such ugly things? It had always been a rule of hers to stay as far away from sooty objects as possible.
    Here and there she noticed some familiar things: pictures from Hungryhouse Lane, and the sofa, and Amy’s grand old clock. The carboy, too. Should she wake James and talk to him about the predicament they were in? Not yet, she decided. He would huff and puff and