Wilma Tenderfoot and the Case of the Putrid Poison (10 page)

“Oooh,” mumbled Tully, throwing Janty an anxious look, sensing there might be trouble.

“Sorry?” answered Barbu, cocking his head to one side. “Did you just call my mind ‘tiny'?”

“Yes!” snapped Cecily, her eyes enraged. “Tiny! Tiny! Tiny! I shall not go on! I refuse to go on! And without me you have no show!”

Barbu looked up at her and scowled. A terrible, tense silence filled the air. Suddenly he twirled his cane in a jolly fashion and leaned back with a smirk. “Fine,” he said with a shrug. “Don't go on. I shall just send on your
understudy
.”

The silence continued as all eyes were fixed on the enraged diva. Cecily, who thought she had won her battle, blinked and swallowed deeply. “My . . . understudy?” she muttered with a shake of her head.

“Yes.” Barbu smiled. “If you don't want to go on—fine. I shall send someone else on in your place. Someone
younger.
And
more attractive.
”

Cecily blinked again and then, without warning, fainted very dramatically back into the group of performers behind her.

“She'll go on, Mr. D'Anvers,”said Scraps, running forward as everyone tried to get Cecily to her feet. “Don't worry. She's a trooper.”

“And that goes for the lot of you,” Barbu barked, raising his cane and pointing. “You are all replaceable! Tully! Janty! Back to the office! We have plans to make!”

And with that he swept away, leaving a scene of chaos behind him.

Janty caught Wilma's eye and smirked. “Didn't they tell you at the Institute that it's rude to stare? Oh, but hang on—staring is all you can do.” And before Wilma could respond he was gone, chasing after his evil master.

Wilma looked down at her beagle, who was trying to hide behind her legs. “Don't worry,” she said, giving his ears a little rub. “I'll be doing more than staring. All the same, this is a strange case, Pickle, and no mistake.”

To which the poor hound could only make a series of uncontrollable smells.

“
I
've drawn a picture of a virus for the Clue Board, Mr. Goodman,” said Wilma, flapping a piece of paper in front of him. “I wasn't sure what one looked like so I made it half crocodile, half camel. That's the most dangerous thing I can imagine. Shall I pin it up?”

Theodore stopped reading that morning's
Sunday Early Worm
paper and examined the picture. “I think a piece of paper with the word ‘virus' written on it will be sufficient, Wilma,” he replied after a short period of serious contemplation. “After all, it's only eight a.m.—we're still waiting for the results from Penbert. And my detective's hunch tells me we're probably dealing with a poisoner rather than a humped animal with crocodile jaws. And not only that, remember, but a poisoner who has a grudge against more than one person.”

Wilma felt a little crestfallen, but tried hard not to show it. She was an apprentice detective now and had to get used to small disappointments. She folded her picture up and tucked it back into her pinafore pocket. Mr. Goodman put down his Sunday paper and reached for the ink pen in his waistcoat pocket. The evening show at the Valiant the night before had passed without incident, allowing the detective some valuable deducting time. Getting out his detective's notebook, he began to make notes. Wilma knew that when her mentor was contemplating and deducting she was expected to remain quiet, something she found very difficult to do.

She wandered over to the Clue Board, put a finger to her lip, like she'd seen Mr. Goodman doing when he was contemplating, and tried to fill the time with a small ponder. “The thing is, Mr. Goodman,” she began, spinning around, “Cecily Lovely went to a lot of trouble not to get questioned.”

“She did, yes,” replied Theodore, still note-making.

Wilma chewed her bottom lip. “Did I tell you about when the Great Sylvester died, Mr. Goodman? You know, for clues and things?”

“Yes, you did, Wilma,” replied the detective without looking up. “Four times as I recall.”

“And everything that Loranda Links told me?” she added.

“Yes, that recollection lasted a full twenty-five minutes,” mumbled Theodore, tapping his notebook with his pen.

“Hmm.” Wilma nodded, blinking hard. “And did I tell you about the creaking noise when I was at the props table? I think someone was listening when I was talking to Loranda.”

Theodore looked up. “Creaking?” he asked. “What sort of creaking? It's an old theatre. It could just have been the floorboards.”

“No,” said Wilma with a shake of her head. “It wasn't a woody sort of creak. It was something else. But I can't quite think what.”

Theodore pondered and made a note. Wilma beamed. It was important to show Mr. Goodman that she was taking her apprenticeship seriously.

“You will not believe what I've found out!” announced Inspector Lemone, bursting in through the study door. He was holding an envelope in his hand and waving it. “I've got the insurance documents for the Valiant. They were sent to the police station this morning! Have a look at that, Goodman!” he cried, throwing it down on the detective's desk. Theodore took the envelope and opened it. “Hello, Wilma,” added the Inspector, giving her head a quick pat. “Oh,” he said, looking down at his suddenly sticky hand. “I think you've got some jam in your hair. Or something.”

“Probably,” replied Wilma, climbing up onto the chair in front of Theodore's desk so she could get a better look. “What does it say, Mr. Goodman?”

“It's an insurance policy, Wilma,” explained Theodore, standing up to read it. “That's a document that lets people who have things make sure that if those things are damaged or lost, then they can be financially compensated. And this tells me that there is a large insurance payout due to the Baron in the event of unnatural deaths. Interesting.”

Wilma, chin cupped in her hands on Theodore's desk, tried to look as serious as she could. “I see.” She nodded. “So, because there have been two unnatural deaths, the Baron will get constipated?”

Theodore cleared his throat and looked out of his study window for a moment. “Compensated, Wilma,” he replied eventually. “Not constipated. That's something very . . . different.”

“Here's the mail from yesterday, Mr. Goodman,” said Mrs. Speckle, waddling in with her knitted tray. “You didn't have time to look at it last night.”

Inspector Lemone, who was always romantically startled whenever he was in Mrs. Speckle's presence, automatically reached for his hair and flattened it.

Mrs. Speckle stopped and squinted at him. “You have strawberry jam smeared across your forehead, Inspector,” she said with an unimpressed glare.

Inspector Lemone grimaced. Oh well. At least she'd looked at him. It was a start.

Theodore was still thinking about the insurance policy as he reached for the two letters on Mrs. Speckle's tray. “We shall have to talk to the Baron about this,” he pondered. “And bump him up to Prime Suspect on the Clue Board, please, Wilma. And pin the policy on the Motives section. Oh,” he added, waving one of the envelopes in the air. “This one is addressed to you, Wilma. Academy crest too.”

Wilma scampered back to take it. Pickle, who had been snoozing in front of the study fire, opened one eye and made ready. If it was important, then he might consider getting up. If it wasn't, then he would stay where he was. There was absolutely no point in giving up the toastiest spot in Clarissa Cottage unless he really had to. Watch and learn, children. Watch. And learn.

Wilma, grinning with expectation, opened the letter and read it.

Wilma frowned. “Work backward?” she muttered, turning the letter over to see if there was anything else on the back. Nothing. Well, this wasn't much to go on. Being a pupil at the Academy of Detection and Espionage was clearly going to be tricky and mysterious. But perhaps that was the point. She'd have to think about it later. She had too much to do as it was. As much as she would like to devote her time to her own investigations, it was far more important to follow orders and help with the case at the Valiant. Personal matters would have to wait. Still, the tags were lovely. She poured them into her pinafore pocket.

“Inspector,” Theodore said suddenly in a dark, troubled tone. “I think you should see this.”

Inspector Lemone took the letter held out to him. “Well, I never,” he said, scanning it quickly. “Think it's the killer?”

“What is it?” asked Wilma, running over. Pickle, who had happily gone back to snoozing, opened one eye again and cocked an ear. Wilma peered across Inspector Lemone's arm. The letter that Theodore had been sent was a collage of cut-out letters.

“It's made of cut-up paper,” Wilma noted. “Oooh . . . There's that lady at the theatre who tears bits of paper . . .”

“Countess Honey Piccio,” said Theodore. “Hmmm. It seems we suddenly have a rush of clues and suspects. Put this in an evidence bag and pin it to the Clue Board, please, Wilma.” Theodore clasped his hands behind his back. “Corpsing has a double meaning. In theatrical terms, it means to laugh when you're not supposed to. But given recent events, it clearly has a more sinister overtone.”

“Very sinister indeed, I'd say,” said Inspector Lemone, looking concerned. “Do you think there's going to be another murder next week?”

“Hard to say,” answered Theodore, pacing. “Although I'm afraid we must assume that there will be. But why would the killer want to warn us? Surely every killer needs the element of surprise? It's almost as if the killer
wants
an audience. There's more to this than meets the eye, Inspector. Fetch the tandem! We're off to the Valiant!”

Pickle sighed and made a half-hearted attempt at a stretch. Things were taking a nasty turn. He was going to have to get up. And there he was, thinking if he snoozed through, he might miss all the horrible bits.

 

Yeah. Right.

A
s Wilma bounced along in the trailer on the back of Theodore's tandem, she sat, arms crossed and lips pursed, deep in thought and contemplation. They were on their way to the Valiant, as Theodore, given the morning's revelation, wanted to speak to Baron von Worms urgently. Wilma's thoughts, however, were on the letter she had received from her headmistress. The Clue Board she had made for the Case of the Missing Relative earlier that morning in her bedroom was alarmingly empty. In the middle there was a hand-drawn picture of herself, a piece of Mrs. Speckle's leftover Wellington wool stretching from that toward an old photograph of the Institute for Woeful Children and then to the luggage tag that had been left tied around her wrist when she was abandoned. Upon it were the words that had haunted Wilma ever since—
because they gone.

“There's not much to go on, is there, Pickle?” she shouted to her beagle, whose ears were flapping in the wind. “Maybe if I try to think in a wonky way it might bubble up something useful . . . Ten years ago,” Wilma began, thrusting a finger upward into the air, “I was left at the gates of the Institute for Woeful Children on a night so stormy the tree in the front yard was struck by lightning and split in two. I know that because whenever anyone asked about the tree Madam Skratch used to say it had happened on the night I'd arrived, and it was an omen that proved I was no good and probably rotten. She was wrong. I am neither. Nobody saw who left me at the gates, but, whoever it was, I don't think it was my parents or a relative. The luggage tag refers to ‘They' and not ‘We'! It was also written by someone who's not very good at grammar. Mr. Goodman always tells me to look out for that. The luggage tag should have read ‘Because they HAVE gone' and then told us
where
they have gone.” Wilma gripped the sides of the trailer as they bumped over a pothole. “But it did not. So I think the person who left me at the Institute won't be a really clever person like Mr. Goodman or Penbert. It will be . . .” Wilma stopped and then, with a quick adjustment of her goggles, delivered her big conclusion: “Someone else!”

Pickle gave a small huff of encouragement. One of a dog's basic duties is to show support at all times, even in the face of utter hopelessness.