Wilma Tenderfoot and the Case of the Frozen Hearts (17 page)

“Arbor-what?” muttered the Inspector.

“Arboretum,” explained Theodore. “Where trees are collected and nurtured. Aha!” He jabbed a finger at a newspaper photo of a special tree planting. “And there it is! I think we've had our first breakthrough, Lemone! Hmmm,” he added, getting out his magnifying glass and looking a little closer at something. “How interesting.”

“And I've got the second breakthrough!” panted Wilma, pulling herself in through the window to the detective's study, Pickle fast behind her.

Theodore spun around. “Wilma, why are you coming in through the window?”

“We've had to be circuitous,” Wilma explained, pausing to make sure he had registered that she'd accomplished another milestone on her pathway to becoming a serious detective. “I know Pickle and I messed up earlier, so even though we're supposed to be off the case it was only proper that we made things right. And I think you'll be quite pleased,” she added, reaching into her pinafore, “because we've managed to get this. It's Visser's order book!” She held out the battered book, her chest still heaving from the effort of her run.

Theodore took the book in his hand and frowned. “You really never give up, do you?” said the detective. “But how did you get this, Wilma?” he asked, taking the book to his bureau and sitting down to examine it.

“Pickle saw that boy—Janty—with Barbu and the big man. And you said that Janty probably knew something useful. So we crept after them. Like you say all detectives should. And they went to the Lowside. And then they went into a disused building, so I knew they were up to something. And I pushed over a wheel and hit the big man on the head with a pot, got the book, and then we ran like crazy. That's how.”

The detective considered the young girl in front of him. His eyes softened for a moment but quickly became serious. It wouldn't do for a famous and responsible detective to let a small but determined ten-year-old girl know that he was quietly impressed by her acts of foolhardy bravery. It wouldn't do at all. “You shouldn't have done that, Wilma,” he said, leaning into the back of his chair. “That was a very silly and dangerous thing to do.”

Wilma stared at her shoes. “But I got the order book, didn't I?” she whispered, barely loud enough to be heard over Pickle's panting.

Theodore stood up, walked toward Wilma, and stuck his thumbs into his waistcoat pockets. “A very silly, dangerous . . . if slightly brave thing to do.”

Wilma beamed. “But will you really be able to catch the person who ordered the fake now, Mr. Goodman? I had a look, but it's like a coloring book—just full of funny pictures.”

Theodore opened the order book and examined it. “Hmmm,” he pondered, curling the ends of his mustache between two fingers. “It's a series of symbols and pictorial anagrams.”

“Anagrams? Is that another detective word?”

“Not really,” answered Theodore, getting out his magnifying glass again. “It's when letters or, in this case, pictures are muddled up. And when you work out how to un-muddle them, they make a word or a sentence. Come and look.” He turned to a random page. “Yes—here's an easy one. So, the first column is the objects ordered. The second—by whom. What object might these refer to?”

Wilma rubbed her nose with the back of her hand and stared at the pictures. “Looks like some sort of net. Perhaps it's something to do with a fisherman? Or a butterfly collector? Or someone who just has a lot of hair?”

“Yes, I suppose it could be, but there's also a ball going into the net. What does that tell us?”

Wilma blinked. “That it's a ball . . . net . . . it's a ball made out of net!”

“No,” said Theodore, who was a very patient man, “it's a goal. So that would be the first part of the clue.”

“A goal!” repeated Wilma, nodding. “Yes, I knew that.”

“So what's this next one?” asked Theodore, pointing to a picture of a makeshift shelter under some trees.

“Sticks and twigs!” announced Wilma. “So we're looking for goal sticks. Made from twigs.”

“No, it's a den,” replied Theodore. “So if we put those two clues together, what do we get?”

“A goal. And a den,” answered Wilma, scratching her head. “Goal. And den. Goal. Den. Oh, wait! I see! Golden! Ha! Golden! Good thing I'm here, Mr. Goodman. To do so much contemplating and deducting!”

Theodore gave a small smile. “So we come to our last picture. What's that?”

Wilma scrunched her face up and turned her head so she could look at the picture from a different angle. “I think,” she said, tapping the page with some authority, “that it's a bald-headed man. With no face.”

“No. It's an egg, Wilma,” explained Theodore, slamming Visser's order book shut. “A golden egg! And there's only one golden egg we know of, isn't there, Wilma?”

“Is there?” answered Wilma, rubbing her chin.

“Yes!” declared Theodore. “The Golden Egg of Polloon. One of the island's greatest treasures. You must remember it, from your Clue Ring. Case I solved a few years back.”

“Oh yes.” Wilma nodded as Pickle gave a short bark.

“Hmmm,” Theodore said, turning to the most recent orders in Visser's book. “And this must be what we want. It's more complicated than a simple anagram. It's going to take some time to solve.” Wilma stared over the great detective's shoulder at the coded page in front of him.

“What does it mean, Mr. Goodman?” asked Wilma.

“I'm not sure yet,” answered the detective, reaching for his notebook. “Now then, I suspect you're hungry after your adventure. You can ask Mrs. Speckle to make you some supper before you head home.”

“But . . .” began Wilma.

“No buts, young lady. Go and ask Mrs. Speckle for that supper.”

“Supper?” came a sleepy voice from the chaise longue. “Mrs. Speckle?”

“Wake up, Inspector!” announced Theodore, sweeping back to his desk. “We have the order book! Thank you, Wilma. This will really make a difference.”

Wilma was grinning from ear to ear. Even though she'd been told to go home, she had finally done something useful and not messed up. Looking at the large round clock, she realized that Mrs. Waldock would probably be asleep. Maybe she could sneak in unnoticed, then go back for Mrs. Waldock's picture tomorrow morning before her mistress was even up. Plus, if she was going to get her luggage tag back, now was the time. And besides, there was a mass of new evidence to add to her Clue Board! “If you don't mind,” she said, backing out of the room, “I won't have supper. Something I've got to do ...” And with that she disappeared, Pickle trotting behind her.

“Doesn't want supper?” asked the Inspector, sitting up and rubbing his eyes. “Has she gone QUITE mad?”

 

Howling Hall was as silent as a graveyard. Wilma and Pickle had crept up via the thorny bushes in the garden so that they were positioned below the blackened window of Mrs. Waldock's sitting room. Wilma couldn't quite see over the top of the window ledge, so she went up on her tiptoes to get a better look. Smearing the grubby glass, she rubbed a little hole in the dirt big enough to peer through. There was Mrs. Waldock's chair in front of the fireplace. “That's funny,” whispered Wilma to Pickle. “Mrs. Waldock's lit a fire. She never does that.” With the back of the chair facing her, Wilma could just make out the hand of her mistress lying motionless on the chair arm. Mrs. Waldock was obviously asleep. “Shhhh,” she whispered to Pickle. “We need to be as quiet as mice.”

The pair tiptoed up the porch steps and in through the front door. Silently they edged their way toward the sitting room, Pickle crawling close to the floor, Wilma getting down onto her hands and knees so as not to be seen should their mistress awaken. Mrs. Waldock had put the luggage tag in the front pocket of her cardigan, and as Wilma inched her way forward she could see it was still in there wedged between the chair and Mrs. Waldock's arm. Gingerly Wilma reached up until she found the tag's knotted string. Sweat had broken out on Wilma's brow, and Pickle's forehead was furrowed with anxiety. The room was warm from the fire, and as Wilma tugged on the tag she was worried that her sweaty fingers would slip. Slowly it came toward her, but its end was stuck. Screwing her eyes closed and biting her bottom lip, Wilma took the plunge and pulled. Mrs. Waldock's body shifted and suddenly her resting arm came thumping down to hit Wilma on the face. Wilma let out a small squeal, but something wasn't right. Mrs. Waldock showed no signs of waking. The disturbed arm hung limp and lifeless, inches from Wilma's nose. Wilma stood up and peered more closely at her mistress. She waved a hand in front of her eyes ... nothing. She put an ear to her mouth . . . no sign of breathing. Wilma stood back and stared. It couldn't be. But as Wilma reached forward and placed a hand on Mrs. Waldock's chest, she made her biggest deduction to date.

Mrs. Waldock was dead. And her heart was frozen. How utterly horrid.

“
I
s it too much to ask . . .” screamed Barbu D'Anvers as he was pulled out from under the milling wheel, “that for once, I am not surrounded by incompetence and stupidity?”

Tully shifted on his feet and rubbed the back of his head. “The thing is,” he began with a gulp, “is that I didn't see her coming, and what with the pot and the dog and everything I just—”

“Tully!” snapped Barbu, clenching his fists. “She's a little girl. A little GIRL! I'm so sorry, but I was under the impression that I pay you to be my thuggish sidekick. I don't think it's unreasonable to expect that you could cope with fighting off a small, badly dressed child and her stinking hound.” Tully bit his lip. “We had the order book in our grasp!” continued Barbu, throwing a brick at the henchman. “And it's gone! How am I going to find the Katzin Stone now?”

“I thought you needed the order book to organize a tribute for my father? And find his killer?” said Janty, who was standing in the corner, having dusted himself down.

“Rule number one of being evil,” snapped Barbu. “Never tell the truth! Of course I wasn't organizing a tribute! I want to find the Katzin Stone! And now that ghastly girl has the order book, it's only a matter of time before Theodore P. Goody-Two-Shoes is hot on the jewel's tail! We have to do something! Think, boy! You worked with your father! You must have seen something!”

A small flash of anger sparked in Janty's eyes. He had been tricked by Barbu, but he knew that the villain was also his only hope of revenge. It was suddenly clear: Help him find the stone and he might catch his father's killer too. “I want to be bad. Like you,” he said defiantly. “Will you teach me everything? Like my father was teaching me? If you will, then I will help you. If you won't, you get nothing from me.”

Barbu D'Anvers was momentarily speechless. He had been planning on killing the boy once he was no longer useful, so this was a development he wasn't ready for. His eyes widened a little. “Well, well,” he said eventually. “How very bold. Bargaining with
me?
You're taking a grave risk. Although I have to admit I'm impressed. It shows ambition. And is the sort of dirty trick I admire. You want to be bad?” he added with a twirl of his cane. “I suppose it depends how bad you want to be. I don't know if you've got it in you.”

“I have, Mr. D'Anvers,” urged Janty, his gray eyes flashing. “I don't ever want to be good. Not as long as I live.”

“Well,” said Barbu, “let's start with thinking about that stone, shall we? And then I'll whip up something basic for you to do to begin with, like . . . poking someone with a stick. You can probably manage that.”

“Yes, Mr. D'Anvers.” Janty nodded. “Then let's shake on it. From now on you will be my master.” He thrust his grubby hand toward Barbu.

Barbu smiled. “Hmmm.” He grinned, taking Janty's hand in his. “I do like the sound of that. All right, you have a bargain. We shall shake.”

And as Janty sealed his fate, the last light of the day sank away into blackness.

Now that the boy had made his decision, he was lost in thought.
Did
he know anything? His father had always been careful not to allow him to his secret meetings, despite Janty's protestations. It was for his own safety, Visser had insisted, but he had seen the Katzin Stone being made—the client had paid extra to have the work completed in double-quick time. Janty's father had worked day and night on it for two days. “I think,” Janty began, his eyebrows knitted in concentration, “my father did mention it might be a particularly high-profile case—sometimes those clients asked him to hide the original once it was obtained in one of our famed secret deposit boxes. You know, until the heat died down, even to sell it on for them . . .”

“What?” whispered Barbu, his eyes widening. “The real Katzin Stone could be hidden somewhere where we can find it?”

“Well, it might be,” said Janty with a shrug. “If my father hid it, then I can probably work out where. He had several hiding places dotted around the island.”

Barbu shoved Tully to one side and leaned forward to grip his young charge's shoulder. Bending down so that his nose was almost touching Janty's, and fixing him with a penetrating stare, Barbu whispered, “Find it for me. Find it for me
now.”

 

It was late. After many hours of searching, it was dark, they were cold, and Barbu, not famed for his patience, was at the end of his tether. They had already been to seven locations on the island, including the back of the pigsties at Whiffling Farm, the thorny bush on the edge of Dunderhead Gorge, and the tank in the second toilet on the left at Mr. Hankley's Corn Crumble Factory. Everywhere Janty had taken them had turned up nothing.