Wilma Tenderfoot and the Case of the Putrid Poison (11 page)

Wilma reached for the notebook in her pinafore pocket and opened it to the page where she had previously made some scribbles. “What was that bit I found before in my Academy textbook? ‘Relatives can be slippery and easily lost,' ” she read out, over the wind. “ ‘The first thing you need to establish is who the last person was to have contact with them.' ” She stared up at the cloudless sky, deep in thought. “That's it, Pickle!” she announced, snapping her fingers. “Miss Lambard's letter! Work backward! We need to go
back
to my beginnings! And that means . . . we need to speak to the only person I know who might be able to tell me something . . . Madam Skratch. Prepare yourself, Pickle. We're going to have to go back to the Institute for Woeful Children!”

Pickle did his best not to look startled, but the thought of returning to that dark, forbidding place made him very nervous. So he made an involuntary smell. Just to register his feelings on the matter.

 

The Valiant was peculiarly quiet that morning, but then it was a Sunday, when there were no shows. Thankfully Barbu D'Anvers and his cronies were nowhere to be seen, leaving Theodore to conduct his investigations in a bit of peace.

“I can assure you I had nothing to do with it!” protested Baron von Worms as Inspector Lemone presented him with the potentially troublesome insurance policy.

“It's there in black and white!” pressed the Inspector, tapping the policy with his finger. “In the event of unnatural deaths, you stand to make a fortune! Now wiggle your way out of that one!”

Wilma was impressed. It was almost as if Inspector Lemone knew what he was doing and he
did
look really rather pleased with himself. He'd
never
solved a case without Goodman before, but there was always a first time and this was obviously it!

Theodore, who had let his friend take the lead, tapped some rosemary tobacco into his pipe and sat down on the tea crate in front of the Baron's makeshift desk. “How many people knew about this policy, Baron?” he asked gently.

“Nobody!” blustered the Baron, breaking out into an uncomfortable sweat. “Although the document was in my office. I suppose someone could have snuck in and read it, though I usually locked the door . . . But I didn't kill Sabbatica or Sylvester, Mr. Goodman!You have to believe me!”

“A pretty tale!” shouted the Inspector, rising to his part. “Nothing but flimflam and gobbledygook! I ought to clap you in irons this very instant!”

“That will do, Inspector,” said Theodore calmly, raising his pipe to his mouth and lighting it.

“It's a standard clause in any theatrical insurance policy!” wailed the Baron, looking increasingly frantic.

“But you must concede that it looks very bad for you. Very bad indeed,” reasoned Theodore, standing. “However, our inquiries are still ongoing. It's not impossible that someone is trying to use this against you. Obviously we shall have to see your bank records, Baron. It still really could be anyone.”

“Well, I wish you'd said,” mumbled the Inspector with a small pout. “Got myself all worked up. Thought I'd cracked it.”

“Oh, I fear there's a long way to go before we crack this case, Inspector,” replied Theodore, giving his friend an encouraging pat on the shoulder.

“There!” declared a voice from the corridor behind them. “You heard it from the man himself! He hasn't got the first clue what he's doing!”

Theodore frowned and peered into the dimly lit passageway. A group of people scribbling furiously on notepads were being led by Barbu D'Anvers, who was strolling toward the detective with an evil smirk on his face, Janty close behind. “Members of the Cooper press, Theodore,” he announced with a grand sweep of his arm. “They've come for an update on the latest goings-on at the Stage of Death! I'm sure they'll pay particular note to the fact that you are getting nowhere with this case . . .”

Theodore's jaw set tight. “That's not what I said, Barbu, and you know it.”

“Lah-dee-dah,” trilled the tiny villain with a twirl of his cane. “Have you captured the perpetrator of these foul deeds? I think not. Ladies and gentlemen of the press, I stand before you, the Angel of the Valiant! And all my efforts to save it are being endlessly hampered by this man's incompetence!”

“Why, I . . .” spluttered Inspector Lemone, incensed to within an inch of his life.

Theodore reached for his overcoat. “These things take time.”

“But what if there are further deaths in the interim?” pestered one of the journalists eagerly. “Will they be on your conscience, Mr. Goodman?”

“That'll do,” butted in Inspector Lemone. “No questions during investigations! You know the rules! Now leave Mr. Goodman be and let him get on with his job!”

As the Inspector bundled Theodore away down the corridor, Janty turned to the press and added, “Running away. Theodore P. Goodman is
running
away. Make sure you all get that, won't you?”

Wilma and Pickle, who had yet to take off after their mentor, glared at the smirking boy before them. “Your boss is half the man that Mr. Goodman is!” Wilma snapped, arms crossed in anger. “In more ways than one!” she added with a withering head-to-toe glance toward Barbu. And before the villain could explode in response, she turned on her heel and ran after the Inspector and Mr. Goodman, with Pickle close behind.

“What's D'Anvers up to?” muttered the Inspector as Wilma and Pickle scampered toward them. “I don't like it, Goodman! Don't like it one bit!”

“Trying to muddy the waters, I expect,” replied Theodore, who was consulting his notebook. “Diversionary tactics. It's standard criminal procedure. I wouldn't let it bother you. We've got far too much to do. Now then. Until we can establish how the victims were poisoned, the Baron must remain our chief suspect. But we also cannot rule out the fact that the real killer may be using a knowledge of that insurance policy to point a finger in his direction. The good news is that there are no shows today. Wilma, you can use the rest of the morning to start your Academy assignment. I heard you say you wanted to return to the Institute. Do so, but tread carefully. And I want you to meet me at the lab at two p.m. Inspector, you and I will return to Clarissa Cottage. I have a lot of contemplating to do.”

Wilma was in no doubt about it. The contemplating to be done was
enormous.

C
ooper Island, as everyone knows, is divided into two parts. There's the affluent and well-to-do Farside and the lowly, trod-upon Lowside. The walk to the Lowside was a pleasant one. The Cooper poppy fields were in bloom, the pig poke was teeming with piglets, and because it was a Sunday morning people were out and about playing Skrittles, a throwing game where everyone tosses ten bowling pins toward one large ball. But as Wilma strolled through the depot at Measly Down, the village that was home to the border-control station, the relaxed air changed to one of bustle and confusion. Sunday was everybody's day off and all the Lowsiders who worked on the Farside were lining up to return home.

The Farside–Lowside border-control station was manned by a uniformed gentleman called Trevor. Wilma's experience of getting past Trevor had, in the past, been fraught with difficulties, but, with her apprentice detective badge pinned proudly to her pinafore, she was confident that her passage into the Lowside would be as easy as sneezing.

As Wilma and Pickle approached the border, the line was massive, but now that Wilma was on official business she'd be able to use the fast-track lane. Or so she thought. Wilma glanced up at the large round clock face that hung on a hook above the control booth. “Ten o'clock,” she noted. “That gives us plenty of time to get to the Institute and then meet Mr. Goodman at the lab at two. In fact, Pickle, seeing as we're going on to the Lowside, we could go to Filthy Cove on the way to the Institute and see if we can find out more about the seaweed I saw in that bucket. I'm sure it's a proper clue! And then we'll go and see Madam Skratch! Perfect.”

Pickle didn't respond. He had found a particularly stinky lump of something indefinable on the floor.

“Well, well,” said Trevor, shoving his cap up his forehead when he saw Wilma approach the fast-track lane. “We meet again.”

Wilma smiled. On her way to the border-control station she had decided on a brilliant tactic in order to navigate it better this time: She was going to be charming. “Hello.” She beamed. “I'd like a day pass into the Lowside, thank you. In fact, I only need to be here for an hour or so. I hope you're well. I'm an apprentice detective now. Isn't it a lovely day? The poppies in Measly Down are wonderful. Have you lost weight? You look good. Younger. Not that you looked fat or old before. Is that a new hat? It really suits you. Not that your hair isn't lovely so it needs covering up . . .”

Trevor took off his cap and scratched his head.

“Oh,” Wilma continued, gulping. “You haven't got any hair . . . Well, it's still a very nice hat. So that'll be a day pass. For me. And my dog.”

“Apprentice detective, eh?” growled Trevor, leaning over his desk and peering down at Wilma. “New position, is it?”

“Yes,” answered Wilma, proudly pointing to her badge. “I've been enrolled at the Academy of Detection and Espionage, and Mr. Goodman has taken me on!”

A smug smile crept across Trevor's face. “Then you'll have to fill out all of these in quadruplicate,” he said, reaching for a mass of forms. “This one's Change of Status. That one's Official Badge Recognition. The one under that is for the Apprenticeship Away-day Travel Card request. You'll need this one as well. That's the Increase in To-ing and Fro-ing Expectancy declaration. And, last but not least, you need to fill out this purple one as well.”

“What's that one for?” asked Wilma, teetering under the mass of papers.

“It's not really for anything. We just like the color,” replied Trevor, picking up a toothpick and sticking it between his front teeth.

Wilma was quietly seething. Still, there was nothing to be done. People in uniform with too much time on their hands are extremely fond of bureaucratic red tape. Filling out everything in quadruplicate was bad enough, but the Official Badge Recognition form required a brass rubbing of the badge in question, the Apprenticeship Away-day application needed a short essay on steam engines, and the To-ing and Fro-ing declaration had not only to be completed four times but also to be folded into the shape of a leaping frog.

“Well!” said Wilma an hour later, ink-covered legs splayed on the floor and surrounded by crumpled paper. “That's the best I can do!” Gathering up all of the completed forms, she approached the booth and handed them over to Trevor.

“This,” said Trevor, holding up the folded To-ing and Fro-ing declaration, “looks more like a jumping toad than a leaping frog. I'm not sure it's going to be acceptable.”

Wilma said nothing. She wanted to say quite a few things at that precise moment, but Mr. Goodman always reminded her that proper detectives save what they're thinking till last. Especially when it might be a bit rude.

“We'll have to wait for an official adjudication,” Trevor added, having a quick spin on his chair. “I can't let you in until we've had a ruling. My hands . . . are tied.” He gave a half-hearted shrug in Wilma's direction. Wilma rolled her eyes. This was taking FOREVER. Just then, a fist holding a piece of paper shot out from a hole in the border wall. It was from the Grand Council of Border Controls.

A look of disappointment flitted acrossTrevor's face. “Oh,” he said with a glum pout. “Then I suppose you can go through.” At last!

“Thank you very much, Trevor,” said Wilma, and with a small but triumphant swish of her wayward hair she strode off into the Lowside, Pickle twitching his tail not far behind her.

 

Filthy Cove was on the easternmost tip of Cooper Island, just past the disused train tracks at Uppity Downs. Following a series of craggy footfalls, Wilma and Pickle were able to clamber their way down to a small, contained shoreline strewn with all manner of flotsam. There was a half-buried masthead, washed up after a wreck, the skeletal carcass of a long-dead whale, and a heap of unopened bottles, all of which had unread messages inside. Wilma kicked off her sneakers and trudged through the thick sand toward a series of rock pools. “According to the book
Shoreside Flora and Fauna
that I read in Mr. Goodman's study, the seaweed I found in the Baron's office is called Ascopopis Nodolum. It's called that because it has egg-shaped air bladders. That you can pop. Like this,” explained Wilma, holding up the piece of seaweed from her pocket and popping one of the dried sacs between her fingers.

“Filthy Cove is the only place on the island where it can be found. Look. Here it is,” she said, crouching down to reach the rock pool at her feet. “Ascopopis Nodolum. Pooh! It stinks!” She slipped a long, slimy length into her pocket.

Pickle bent closer to have a deep sniff, but as he did so a large crab, taking exception to being bothered, clamped one of its claws firmly onto the end of the poor beagle's nose. With a yelp, Pickle leaped into the air, lost his footing on the slippery rocks, and promptly fell headfirst into the freezing rock pool.

“Pickle!” chastised Wilma, yanking him out by the collar. “We haven't got time for fooling around.”

Suddenly, Wilma sensed a figure darting to her right. She spun around, but before she could get a clear view of who it was a large wave crashed against a rock, sending a blanket of spray upward. Spluttering and rubbing the stinging seawater out of her eyes, Wilma strained to see who had been on the beach, but the figure appeared to have vanished.