The Underground City (10 page)

It was only when darkness fell and Princes Street Gardens closed for the night that Kitor swooped carefully from his perch and, keeping to the shadows, flew towards the dark bulk of Arthur's Seat. He was well aware of the peril he was in and heaved a huge sigh of relief as he reached the hill for, had Casimir been aware of him, he was quite sure that a
thunderbolt
would have long since finished him off.

He flew to the shaft that the pigeons used to enter the hill and dropped thankfully down into the darkness below. At last, he was safe! Completely safe! No thunderbolt could reach him now, for the magic shield that the MacArthurs had put round the hill protected all within it.

As he flapped his wings at the bottom of the shaft, he
suddenly
realized that the hill was filled with light. Torches were burning everywhere and the cavern was full of people. The MacArthurs! Kitor could hardly believe his luck! They had returned!

Heads turned to look at him curiously as he flew towards the huge chair layered with banks of cushions that held the MacArthur himself. A small, but regal figure, the MacArthur sat, straight and imperious, in a red, fur-lined coat and long, black boots. This vaguely Russian outfit was topped by a fur hat that sported long, drooping flaps that covered his ears and a tartan scarf. Braziers were being lit throughout the cavern but the hill, empty for so long, was still bitterly cold and, despite his feathers, Kitor shivered.

The MacArthur watched as Kitor flew towards him and
knew, just by looking at him, that the bird bore urgent news.

“Welcome back, MacArthur,” Kitor croaked, bowing low before collapsing weakly in a shaking heap of feathers.

Hamish and Jaikie put down the brazier they were carrying and strode up to where Kitor trembled pathetically in front of the MacArthur.

“What is it, Kitor?” Hamish asked, lifting an eyebrow at the MacArthur, who looked puzzled and shook his head. “What's happened?”

“Prince Casimir!” the bird stuttered. “Prince Casimir has returned!”

There was a horrified silence. “Prince Casimir?” the MacArthur said, sitting up straight in complete disbelief, “but surely Prince Casimir is dead?”

Jaikie looked at Kitor, who, adjusting his ruffled feathers, was struggling to his feet. “Are you sure?” he asked, lifting the bird gently onto a cushion and gesturing to one of the men to light the brazier and bring it closer.

“It was Prince Casimir,” the crow said stubbornly. “I knew him at once.”

They looked at one another in consternation, believing him implicitly, for Kitor had once belonged to Casimir's son, Prince Kalman. There was no way Kitor was going to mistake Casimir's presence.

The MacArthur looked appalled. “Jaikie, you'd better go to Arthur's cave and fetch Archie. He'll need to be in on this!”

Archie and Arthur arrived together and when Archie had perched himself comfortably on the great dragon's arm, Kitor poured out his story of how he had seen the boy on the hill trying to break through the protective shield and told them, too, of his exploits as the Shadow.

The MacArthurs looked at one another in amazement. “You must be joking, Kitor,” Archie said, looking absolutely
thunderstruck. “Are you seriously trying to tell us that Casimir, Casimir of all people, is involved in saving people's lives all over the country?”

Kitor sighed. “That's one reason I got such a shock when I found out that it was Casimir inside Lewis,” the bird admitted doubtfully. He drew a deep breath. “It's … well, it's not the sort of thing he ever did, is it?”

“You can say that again,” muttered Hamish. “The Casimir
I
know would never have lifted a finger to help anyone.”

“It's certainly a turn up for the books!” Jaikie said, disbelief written all over him. “Let's face it, Casimir was always as proud as Lucifer. That's why I could never understand why he stole the Sultan's crown. When you think about it, it was totally out of character …”

“Yes,” agreed the MacArthur, with a puzzled frown, “I've always thought there was something a bit strange about the whole affair.”

“The Chief Constable said that the Grants had just come back from the Middle East,” offered Kitor.

Archie's head jerked. “That could be where Casimir managed to take Lewis over!” he said excitedly.

The MacArthur nodded in sudden understanding. “It's
possible
,” he agreed.

“But we all assumed that when Casimir stole the Sultan's Crown, the storm carriers chased him and killed him!” objected Jaikie.

“Hasn't the Sultan mentioned Prince Casimir to you at all?” questioned Hamish dubiously.

The MacArthur shook his head. “The Sultan has never
mentioned
him,” he confessed, “and, quite frankly, I didn't like to bring the subject up.”

“Then it's possible that the storm carriers
didn't
kill him when he stole the crown. The Sultan must have imprisoned
him instead. Probably out in the desert somewhere …”

“If anything,” Archie mused, “you'd think Casimir would be spending his time looking for Kalman instead of indulging in this Shadow business! Kalman is his son, after all!”

Jaikie sat up. “Maybe that would explain why he was trying to get into the hill,” he said, excitedly. “If he's discovered that Ardray is no more, he'd want to find out what happened to Kalman and I bet he'd rather come to us for information than go to Morven and the Lords of the North. You used to get on with him better than most, MacArthur, if I remember rightly!”

“The other thing you should know, MacArthur,” Kitor said, “is that Neil and Clara have been among the ghosts in the old town.”

The MacArthur frowned. “You should have told them to have nothing to do with them, Kitor,” he said, sternly. “Ghosts are something else! How did their parents allow it?”

“They didn't tell them,” Kitor admitted. “The MacLeans know nothing about it. But it wasn't Neil's fault. The ghosts asked him to help them.”

Jaikie blinked. “This gets weirder and weirder!” he said, in amazement. “The ghosts asked Neil to help them? I've never heard the like of it!”

“The Plague People,” Kitor said. “They were afraid of them getting out.”

There was a deadly silence. “The Plague People?” the MacArthur said in surprise. “I thought they'd been sealed up pretty firmly.” Nevertheless, a shade of concern crossed his face as he spoke and he looked thoughtful.

“The ghosts are worried. There are some men working in the Underground City. They're trying to break into the vaults of the big bank on the Mound. Neil says that the bank doesn't keep money there any more so they won't get anything, but the thing is that they're very near the Plague People,” Kitor paused,
“and we all know what
they're
like!”

The MacArthur shuddered. “Aye, well, that's not our
business
,” he said. “The ghosts will have to take care of the Plague People themselves.”

“I think they are,” Kitor nodded. “The last time we were there, they told Neil they were going to try to scare the wits out of the crooks. They've … they've asked for permission to materialize!”

Jaikie and Archie looked at one another. “That's a bit much, isn't it?” muttered Jaikie, raising his eyebrows. “They'll scare Edinburgh stupid!”

Kitor nodded. “They're pretty awful,” he said doubtfully, “but I don't think they plan to leave the Underground City. And the Chief Constable said that he was going to wait until you got back so that you could work out what to do about Lewis.”

The MacArthur nodded approvingly. “I think we'd better all meet up,” he said, “and the sooner the better! Hamish, take a carpet and tell the Ranger what has happened so that he can pass the word on to Sir James and the Chief Constable. In the meantime, I'll speak to the Sultan and Lord Rothlan through the crystal. They'll both have to know that Casimir has escaped.”

A strong undercurrent of excitement ran through the little group as, later that evening, they sat round the MacArthur's chair. How often, Clara thought as she sat with Kitor on her shoulder, had they sat like this in the past, sprawled on
cushions
and low divans listening to the MacArthur. Arthur, the great dragon, lay beside them, occasionally blowing gusts of roaring, sparkling flame across the cavern, for the huge hall was still fairly cold, despite the glowing braziers that had been dotted here and there.

“I've told the Sultan everything,” explained the MacArthur,
looking round the assembled company. “Needless to say, he's not best pleased that Casimir has managed to escape.”

“Is he coming here,” queried Hamish, “to the hill?”

A sudden silence fell as the MacArthur nodded. “He plans to come tomorrow evening to sort things out.”

“I'll do anything I can to help!” Sir James said frankly. “And if we can somehow get Casimir to leave Lewis before the Sultan arrives, then so much the better. As it happens, I've already invited the Grants backstage after the show.”

“Lewis told us,” nodded Neil. “We met him at the ice rink in Princes Street Gardens and he's looking forward to seeing us again, isn't he Clara? I'm sure we could find some excuse to get him to leave his mum and dad. We could show him our dressing-room, or something. Then you could talk to him on your own, Sir James, and tell him that the MacArthur wants to talk to him. What do you think, Dad?” he asked, turning to his father.

“A good idea,” the Ranger nodded.

“It might be managed,” the Chief Constable said
thoughtfully
.

“He's a wily old bird, is Casimir,” the MacArthur interrupted. “I reckon he'll play things by ear. After all, he tried to get into the hill to speak to me, didn't he? He'll take you up on it all right, James — to see what I have to offer, if nothing else.”

Jaikie looked doubtful. “Do we have anything to offer?” he queried.

The MacArthur looked grim. “I think,” he said, “that the Sultan might be willing to pardon Prince Casimir now that he has his crown back.”

“Great!” Archie looked relieved and Arthur blew an
approving
cloud of smoke from his nostrils that set everybody
coughing
.

After that, the party broke up and as the magic carpets
soared into the air, Kitor flew to the MacArthur's shoulder to remind him of the ghosts of Mary King's Close.

The MacArthur nodded and quietly drew the Chief Constable to one side. “The Bank of Scotland on the Mound, Sir Archie,” he said. “I've heard a whisper that some bank
robbers
are interested in cleaning it out.”

Archie Thompson's eyebrows rose in surprise. “They must be pretty thick, then,” he replied. “It's not been a working branch for quite a while now.”

“Then you're not worried about it?”

The Chief Constable shook his head. “It's a museum these days,” he replied.

“That's what Neil said,” nodded the MacArthur.

The Chief Constable's eyes sharpened at the mention of Neil's name. “Actually, the Bank of Scotland has donated quite a lot of money to
Ali Baba
. They always contribute to good causes and it so happens that Molly and I are going to see the pantomime tomorrow night with one of the bank's directors. I'll … er, sound MacPherson out then.”

The Assembly Hall that evening was a scene of hustle and bustle as the cast of
Ali Baba and the Forty Thieves
arrived early and settled nervously in their dressing rooms to apply the layers of make-up and greasepaint that would transform them from solid Scots into the more exotic characters of the
pantomime
. For the stars who had dressing rooms of their own, this was more or less a routine matter but for the bit-part players it was all new, thrilling and exciting.

Neil and Clara found themselves squashed in the corner of a large room that was totally overcrowded. The brightly-lit stretch of mirrors above the make-up shelf that ran the length of the room added to the confusion, not only reflecting the performers but also rack upon rack of gaudy costumes,
magnificent
turbans, fancy wigs and those ornate slippers with turned-up toes so popular among the peoples of the east.

“I’ll be lucky if I can keep these slippers on my feet,” muttered Neil, as a make-up artist plastered Clara’s fair skin with what looked like brown gunge. “I’ll have to hold them on with my toes, I think!”

“I saw mum in the wardrobe room. She might be able to give you something to tie round them,” Clara mumbled, trying to keep her lips still as the woman doing her face wielded sticks of make-up and hissed at her not to talk.

Neil made his way to the door through the chattering, excited crowd that milled here and there between the costumes and the mirrors. He couldn’t see his mother anywhere in the general pandemonium of the dressing rooms. It all
looked pretty frantic, but rehearsals had taught him that there was method behind the madness and that within an hour the entire cast would be totally transformed. Reaching the side of the stage, he practised walking up and down to get the feel of the gaudy slippers. Before he had arrived at the theatre, he had been looking forward to taking part in the show; now his confidence drained away as he worried about keeping the shoes on his feet!

Last minute practices were still going on. On stage, two men were fighting with deadly-looking, curved scimitars. Neil grinned as he watched them go through their routine. Before the rehearsals started, neither man had ever used a sword before, far less a scimitar, but they had managed to work out a mock-duel with the help of the one man in the cast that knew anything about sword-play; Alec Johnston, the Genie of the Lamp.

Alec, whose arrogance was unsurpassed, considered himself a rising star in the theatrical world and had, unsurprisingly, managed to make more enemies than friends during the course of rehearsals. Nevertheless, he was a professional and stood watching the fight critically as the two swordsmen went through their paces.

He was already made-up and in costume. It was, Neil
admitted
enviously, a fantastic costume. A dark blue mask, spiked with gold, decorated the upper part of his face and covered his hair while a loose cloak of the same colour hung over a tight under-suit of shimmering gold. And there was no doubt
whatsoever
that his spectacular leap onto the stage when Ali Baba rubbed the magic lamp, was absolutely fantastic and one of the highlights of the pantomime. However much you disliked him as a person, he made a fantastic genie, Neil thought, as he saw him lift a commanding hand and stop the fight.

“Watch me again,” he instructed, taking the scimitar from the hands of one of the men. “Step forward — one, two, three
— and then lunge, like this.” The steel blade glinted and as the folds of his shimmering cloak rippled and billowed, his arm swung forward with deadly accuracy.

In the wings, the producer looked at his watch and turned to the Stage Manager. “Has the paint on that big mirror dried yet?” he asked.

“Should’ve done! I’ll just get Sandy and Alfie to bring it upstairs. It weighs a ton and a half!”

Neil barely heard them as he turned to go back to the
dressing
room. He hadn’t been made up yet and reckoned that Clara must be nearly finished. In his anxiety to get back, however, Neil missed a sight that would have set his pulses racing; for barely five minutes later, two burly stage hands carried a huge mirror up the stairs from the cellar. Casimir, the Sultan, the MacArthurs, Sir James — all of them would have recognized it immediately. It was over seven feet tall and its iron frame was decorated with carvings of flowers, birds and strange animals. It was a magic mirror!

The paint shop had done a grand job the Stage Manager thought as he looked it over; the drab frame, now covered in layers of gold paint, shone brilliantly and its mirrored surface, he reckoned, would reflect the stage lighting nicely. It had been a real find and just what was needed to give an extra buzz to the bazaar scene. Had he known just how big a buzz the mirror was going to give the bazaar scene, he would have sent it straight back down to the cellars there and then but, as he didn’t, he waved a casual hand. “Stack it in that corner over there,” he told Alfie. “We’re using it for the Lashkari Bazaar scene!”

“Sorry I’m late,” Jock MacPherson apologized as he squeezed along the row of people to sit beside his wife. “I got held up at the bank!”

Archie Thompson gave a wry smile as Jock settled in his
seat with a sigh, glad he’d made it before the performance began. How often, thought the Chief Constable, had he been in the same position himself! He looked at his watch. “Still five minutes to curtain-up, Jock,” he said comfortably. “Busy, these days, are you?”

“Frantically,” was the reply. “Been doing nothing but sign papers all evening. We’re modernizing a lot of the branches at the moment and while it saves time to do them all in one fell swoop, so to speak, the amount of organization is tremendous. Got to stash the cash somewhere, eh!”

Sir Archie’s eyes sharpened and a stab of worry shot through him. “May I ask where you’ve … er … stashed it?”

Jock MacPherson turned in his seat and looked him warily in the eye. “Do you have a reason for asking, Archie?”

The Chief Constable nodded. “I do, as it happens.”

“In the vaults on the Mound.”

Archie Thompson paled and reached for his mobile. “How much?” he asked.

“Well … millions,” was the somewhat guarded reply.

“The devil there is,” muttered the Chief Constable as he got to his feet. “Come on, Jock. I’ll catch up with you at the bank! If my information is correct, we’re in for a busy night!”

The Chief Constable wasted no time. He flashed his ID at the pass door, headed back stage and collared the first person in authority that he saw.

“Where are the two kids that act as pages to Matt Lafferty?” he asked the Stage Manager.

Neil, however, had seen the Chief Constable. “Sir Archie’s here,” he whispered to Clara as the Stage Manager pointed in their direction.

“I think he wants to talk to us,” Clara said as the kilted figure strode towards them.

“Neil,” Sir Archie said, drawing them to one side and coming
straight to the point, “what do you know about the bank
robbers
that are planning to rob the bank on the Mound?”

Neil looked startled. This was quite a different Sir Archie to the one they knew. He was using his official voice and it was obvious that the matter was urgent.

“They’ve found a way into the bank through the Underground City,” he replied. “They’ve got an old map that shows all the streets.”

“They get in through the cellars of Deacon Brodie’s Tavern,” Clara added, “and they’ve cleared all the alleyways down to the bank.”

“You don’t, by any chance, know who they are and when they plan to carry out this robbery, do you?” queried Sir Archie.

“Well, I think it
might
have been planned for tonight,” Neil said hesitantly, remembering what the old Codger had said. “But they won’t get anything, will they?” he added doubtfully. “Dad told me that the building’s a museum.”

“Can you describe the men to me?”

“There are two of them,” Neil answered. “Murdo and Wullie.”

“That pair!” muttered the Chief Constable.

“And there’s a third man now called Tammy Souter,” added Clara. “At least that’s what the ghosts said.”

“Tammy Souter?” exclaimed Sir Archie, “well, well,” he said, punching numbers into his mobile, “we know all about
him!
” Then he stopped and did a spectacular double-take. “That’s what
who
said?” he asked, in disbelief.

“The ghosts from Mary King’s Close,” Neil answered. “They’re not really worried about the bank but they’re afraid the crooks might let the Plague People out by mistake. The cellars that hold them are quite close to where they’re working.”

“It’s the Plague People they’re worried about,” Clara nodded, looking scared. “Mary King said that if they get out they’ll … they’ll bring the Black Death back to Edinburgh!”