"I'll be off to the hardware shop, then," said Arabella morosely. "You're sure you're all right here? Have another coffee if you want to. Mr Tibbles will keep you company."
I could hear her carpet slippers drag along the pavement as she walked past the window. She had taken it hard, no doubt about it.
"Poor Arabella," I said to Mr Tibbles. He looked back with a certain amount of reproach. He had seen Arabella's distress, and he was devoted to her.
"Well, what could we do? That damned Mundungus is stealing from her. It's a harsh thing to say, but he courts her just to steal from her. We can't let him continue."
Mr Tibbles agreed. He clearly was no great fan of Mundungus himself.
"I dare say you tried to warn her yourself," I continued.
Mr Tibbles nodded.
"She didn't believe you, of course. Sometimes you just need speech. What did she think it – that you were jealous?"
Mr Tibbles nodded again and heaved a deep sigh.
"We'll make sure you're out in the garden, tonight. Just be careful he can't catch you. If he did, he'd use you as a hostage. Keep between him and the door in the fence. If he makes for that escape route …"
Mr Tibbles looked a bit more cheerful, and quickly slid between the table legs.
"Exactly. Trip him up. That's the ticket."
Mr Tibbles nearly smiled, lifted his right paw, and carefully studied his long, sharp nails. He licked his whiskers in delicate anticipation.
Mundungus was in for a hard time.
Lovely thought. I would have to explain the difference between Grievous Bodily Harm and a minor correction to Mr Tibbles, though. Mundungus deserved punishment, but not permanent damage. That would be taking the law into our own hands in totally unacceptable ways.
While Mr Tibbles and I discussed crime and punishment, Arabella was getting a new padlock. It had been her idea, and it showed that the best of Magical detectives could overlook clues, too.
I had come to Arabella's place, not just with an explanation of the missing kitten problem, but with a solution as well. Amelia and I had worked diligently to 'frame' Mundungus, as the expression is. Amelia had a friend who was willing to serve as bait.
At first I had had my doubts about bringing in another person. Could the friend be trusted? Amelia's career should not suffer from this. But Amelia had quickly set my mind at rest.
"You know her," she had told me. "It's Wilhelmina Grubbly-Plank. She has done a far bit of substitute teaching at Hogwarts during Kettleburn's injuries. She's dead against messing about with animals and can be trusted absolutely. I will wait at her place as extra back up. If Mundungus manages to get the kitten out after all then I'll tackle him at Will's place. And keep Will off his back. She can be a bit direct, Will can, when animal welfare is concerned."
This sounded like an excellent plan on many levels. It ensured back up, and Wilhelmina was, indeed, utterly reliable and a great animal lover. And while I might not have a gaydar as sharp as Amelia's, I could easily see that a night vigil in Wilhelmina's cottage would suit Amelia admirably.
The friend had contacted Mundungus about a Kneazle kitten, he had visited her to discuss terms, and they had settled on a delivery date.
Both Amelia and I supposed Mundungus would steal the kitten the night before. Why would he want to look after the kitten for several days? He'd steal the wee thing in the night and deliver her in the morning.
Amelia's friend had mentioned a preference for late afternoon or early evening delivery to make sure. Mundungus had been adamant: morning delivery it had to be. He didn't want to be burdened with the animal for a whole day.
We expected him to steal the kitten that very night, and I would be ready for him. It would be too dangerous to have Amelia present. Mundungus was bound to be arrested for some other crime at some point, and he was clever enough to understand that he could get both Amelia and Arabella into trouble by mentioning Amelia's involvement in the case.
For me, there were no such restrictions. I was an Order member visiting Arabella; Mundungus was an Order member caught in an act of base betrayal. He would be mad to complain to Albus about my behaviour.
Amelia had not liked it one bit, of course. She had even gone as far as to ask, "Will you manage on your own?"
"You read too many Muggle detective novels," I told her. "True, in those books there's often a moment of extreme danger just before the end. But that's because an author needs a tension arc, so they have to invent a set of circumstances that lead to danger."
"It can happen," Amelia had grumbled.
"All right," I said, "give me a convincing storyline in which Mundungus Fletcher gets the better of me in a one-to-one duel." And I had struck up a duelling pose, the better to make Amelia imagine. She had to agree that the most obvious solution was also the right one: I would deal with Mundungus on my own.
Thoroughly.
I had told Arabella I would put up wards that would prevent Mundungus from using an Alohomora. He would use one to get into the shed, of course, and we'd have to wait until he did in order to catch him red-handed. That's when Arabella came up with the padlock idea, and it was brilliant in its simplicity.
"You won't even have to put up wards," she said, with a little crack in her voice. "You won't even need that, Minerva. Do you know what he did, the scumbag? He bought that padlock for me. I was that upset after the first abductions, I told him all about it. And he comforted me and said he would help. And he bought the padlock and installed it, too. And now all he has to do is bring the bloody spare key. He must have had an extra spare key made. That's why I thought the abductions were done by wizards – because there were no traces of burglary, none. And you know why? Because the toe rag installed the lock himself. And he did the lock for the garden door, too."
So she would get a new padlock, and when Mundungus would show up, he'd try to open it with his old key, and we'd have our proof. And we could have known, Amelia and I; Mathilda had told us that Arabella's not-so-very-beau had helped her with a padlock.
When Arabella came home, we had tea. And then a small glass of sherry. And then bangers and mash. I could have done without those offerings, but keeping busy seemed to help Arabella.
"I'm glad you're here, however hard it is to accept," she said with simple dignity. "The least I can do is make sure you get some decent food. I know it isn't magical, but my Tom always said I made the best mash he'd ever had."
And true enough, the sausages were cooked to a turn, and the mashed potatoes, which I had greeted with some trepidation, since the Hogwarts mash tends to be a starchy affair, were the very essence of comfort food.
After our meal Arabella made some excellent coffee and we sat, she with knitting, I with a Muggle newspaper, and waited for darkness.
When it was nearly dark, we took up our positions: Mr Tibbles in the garden, and Arabella and I in the kitchen. Not much later we saw the garden door move.
"He oiled the hinges regularly for me, the little shit," whispered Arabella.
Mundungus quietly made his way to the shed, rummaged in his pocket, and extracted a Muggle key.
And failed to unlock the padlock.
He stared at the key, as one does when an object that ought to function suddenly doesn't, and rummaged in his pocket once more. He took out various items, discarded them one by one, stared at the key, and tried again.
I stepped out, wand drawn.
"Freeze," I said. "Hands up, and turn slowly towards us. You're caught in the act."
In many Muggle detectives the investigator says "Freeze" or "Hands up" at some point. I've always wanted to say it myself.
Part of me was glad Amelia wasn't there, though. She would have thought it too funny for words, and I'd never have heard the last of it.
"What … What …" Mundungus was stunned. Not literally, of course. There was no need for anything as drastic as that, and it might have attracted attention. But he froze admirably.
"You're trying to steal a kitten, in order to deliver it to…" and I gave the address of Amelia's friend. "We have full proof."
"You louse! You pile of bat droppings! You toe rag," said Arabella. She took care not to scream – no need to alert the neighbours. But the anger behind her words made my flesh creep. Mundungus looked most uncomfortable.
"Now, Figgy, sweetie, keep your 'airnet on," he tried.
"Sweetie?" said Arabella, in low, threatening tones, "You still dare call me 'sweetie'? I'll sweeten you all right." And she threw a tin of cat food at him.
It hit him straight on the temple, and he went down like a log. Arabella's aim was astonishing.
Mundungus came round very quickly, and struggled into a sitting position.
"Now listen carefully," I told him. "You'll clear off, you'll never, ever bother Arabella again, and you'll never tell anyone about her Kneazle business. Because if you do – any of it – you'll have to deal with Albus, and worse, you'll have to deal with me. And it will not be pretty. I'll find you, wherever you are, and I'll hex the living daylights out of you. Don't think for one minute that I won't. You're in the Order long enough to know my wartime record. I get things done, and I don't get caught when I do them."
In a wartime situation, actions such as I have committed can be justified, or rather, they can be necessary. I'd be most reluctant to commit an unlawful action in peace-time. But Mundungus, who'd never done an honest day's work in his life, would be inclined to believe everyone capable of breaking the law. And he did know of some of my wartime missions.
He looked positively bilious.
"Out," I said.
He stumbled towards the door as fast as he could manage in his dazed state. He made it halfway when Mr Tibbles tripped him up. As neat an action as you could wish for. Again, Mundungus went down with a satisfying thud. The yelp he emitted next told me that Mr Tibbles must have scratched Mundungus's hand with his nails. By accident, of course. Could happen to any cat trying to avoid a falling human in the dark.
Mundungus got up again and made for the door. I briefly aimed my wand. He screamed, grasped his backside with both hands, screamed again, and ran away.
Arabella looked at me. "A boil," I told her. "He won't sit for at least a week. Just to make sure he remembers what I told him."
Arabella had been adamant she didn't want compensation payment. "He spends everything he earns, so in order to pay me he'd probably rob someone else. And besides, it would mean seeing him again, or at least being reminded of him again. I want a clean end to this. I want him out of my life. And I can afford to lose the money. It's the kittens I was afraid for," she had told me, and I had to agree. This was the best solution for her.
We both went inside, with a smug-looking Mr Tibbles on our heels.
"Well, that's it," Arabella said. "He's gone forever."
In the garden, she had been strong and completely in control. Now she looked as if all resilience had been punched out of her. Blast Mundungus!
"How on earth did you manage to hit him like that?" I asked, in an effort to cheer her up a bit. "A perfect hit. Was it a lucky strike?"
Arabella smiled, a very sad little smile. "A lucky strike is what it was. Mind, I've years of practice. We played darts every week."
I had no idea what she was talking about. It was a lucky strike with years of practice? And playing with darts? Darts were medieval; surely Muggles didn't use them anymore? I asked what she meant.
"But I thought you were half-Muggle?" she said, somewhat surprised. "I remember Albus mentioning it once in an Order meeting. Sorry, that's intrusive," she added.
"Not at all. And it's true. My father was a Muggle. A Presbyterian Minister."
"That explains it, then. Not the kind of man to take you to the pub. Darts is a Muggle pub game, you see. Tom and I used to play every week. He was such a lovely man, my Tom. 'You cook dinner every day, Bella, and a damn fine dinner, too,' he used to say. 'So on Friday, when I get my pay check, we eat out. You deserve it.' And every Friday he took me to The Bells and Motley, and we'd have a proper dinner out. A pie, say, or chicken in a basket. With a pudding and everything. And then we'd play darts with our friends. Come, I'll show you."
She beckoned me up the stairs, and I followed her. I was both touched by her story and intrigued by what she wanted me to see. On the landing, Arabella turned on the light, and I saw a large wooden board on one of the walls. On the board there was a round disk, of a softer sort of wood, with segments in ever increasing circles in different colours. The centre was red.
We walked up to it, and I noticed the darts stuck in the round board. There were small holes in the wooden background, too, which explained its use. Wall-protection.
Arabella pulled them out and walked to the other end of the landing. "Come," she said, "I'll show you."
She made me stand behind her – "can't be too careful," she told me – and explained that Darts was about throwing the little darts in the coloured segments in order to gain as many points as possible.
She balanced a dart, aimed, and threw. It got stuck right next to the little red centre.
"When you hit the bull's eye, that's what we call it, it's a 'lucky strike'," she explained. "That's why I said hitting Mundungus was one. Of course, with a target that large it's easy."
"You practiced here?" I asked.
"Yes," said Arabella. She hesitated briefly, and had to blink a few times before she could look at me.
"No – not really. When Tom got ill … he died of cancer, more than ten years ago … well, one day he came home with this. Said we might like to practice. But he really bought it because he knew he'd soon be too ill to go to the pub. And he was, too. So he made me order take-away food on Fridays, for he said I still deserved a weekly break from cooking, more than ever. And we'd have a game together. 'See,' he said. 'We still have good times.'
"After he passed away, I couldn't even bear to look at it. But I couldn't take it down, either. I continued to order take-away on Fridays. He made me promise, you know. Wanted me to treat myself. So I always did. Still do. And now, occasionally, I play a game of darts. Just to keep in practice. I don't like going to the pub anymore. They're lovely, all our old friends, but it still hurts like hell. Being there all alone. Not hearing Tom say, 'That's my girl' after a very good strike.
Arabella looked at the darts board, blinking away tears she didn't want to show. "I thought," she said, and then had to swallow before she could go on.
"When Mundungus started to be all helpful and take me out to the pub, I thought that, perhaps, there might be more to life than take-away on Fridays and a solitary game of darts. It wouldn't be the same; it could never be the same. But I thought I'd have something. I was a fool, wasn't I?"
I had to take a deep breath myself before I could answer. "No," I said. "You're a very courageous woman. And you deserve so much better than Mundungus."
I didn't want to leave Arabella like that, and suddenly I had an idea. "Do you think," I asked her, "that a woman who once was a reasonably good Chaser might learn to throw darts?"
Arabella looked at me. Slowly, she began to smile. "Those Quidditch hoops are a darn sight bigger than a darts board," she said. "But at least you can aim – we might give it a try. You know what – I'll fetch us a bottle of ale each. You might as well learn to do it the proper way. Meanwhile, you can have a go."
She handed me the darts.
"I should try for the red centre?" I asked.
"On your first attempt, you should try to hit the board, not the wooden backing. Mind, it's there for a reason," Arabella grinned.
By the time she returned, I had managed to hit the board three times (and missed twice). One of the darts was not too far from the centre. Arabella nodded with approval and collected the darts. Then she poured each of us a pint of ale, and we raised our glasses in silent acknowledgement of all that had happened that day.
Then Arabella threw her second dart of the evening, with expert precision. It hit the bull's eye with a resounding thud. She looked at me, and I knew we both thought the same.
Somewhere, someone was saying, "That's my girl".
