Wilma Tenderfoot and the Case of the Putrid Poison (2 page)

On its top right-hand corner there was a crest of a magnifying glass crossed with a false mustache. The letter had been picked off the doormat by Mrs. Speckle, dressed head to toe in her trademark woolen outfit, and was waiting to be delivered to the young apprentice on a knitted tray. Everything Mrs. Speckle wore was made from wool, from the watch on her wrist to the spectacles on her face. If it wasn't warm, it wasn't wanted. As Wilma bounced into the kitchen, still spitting out bits of leaf and covered in all manner of tree-based detritus, her employer, Theodore P. Goodman, was standing waiting for his peppermint tea, an afternoon drink, you will remember, to which he was overwhelmingly partial.

“Goodness,” he said, casting his young apprentice a long glance. Her blond, scruffy hair was a tangle of leaves, her pinafore was covered in grassy smudges, her socks were scrunched down to her ankles, and her knees were smothered in mud. “You look as if you've been dragged through a bush backward.”

“It was a tree, actually,” said Wilma suddenly, without thinking. Pickle rolled his eyes. So much for keeping quiet.

“A tree?” asked Mrs. Speckle suspiciously, picking up the tray and shoving it under Wilma's nose.

“Never mind,” said Wilma, remembering she wasn't supposed to say anything. “Is that letter for me?” she asked quickly, blowing a caterpillar out from her hair.

“Well, it's addressed to you,” interjected Theodore, reaching for the pipe in his pocket. “Looks quite official, I'd say. You'd better open it.”

Wilma had never received a proper letter before. She stared at the envelope as it lay on the tray and experienced what some people might call a hullabaloo.

“I'm very nervous,” she said eventually, twisting the bottom of her pinafore. “But, actually, I'm quite excited at the same time. Like the inside of a sparkly drink. Or a bag of bees. Or a load of bubbles. Or . . .”

“Yes, I get the drift, Wilma,” answered Theodore P. Goodman, packing his pipe with some rosemary tobacco. “That'll do. I suggest you calm yourself. Remember, apprentice detectives don't get to be proper detectives unless they are contemplative and occasionally silent.”

“I can try and be contemplative,” said Wilma, bouncing up and down. “But I don't know if I can do the silent bit quite yet. I'm too full of fizz.”

“Oh, just open it,” grumbled Mrs. Speckle, still holding out the tray. “My arm's getting tired.”

Wilma gulped and picked the embossed envelope up off the tray. Breaking the seal on the back, she opened it carefully and read it out loud.

Wilma was beside herself. “The Academy of Detection and Espionage?” she asked, wide-eyed. “I didn't even know there was such a thing! Is it brilliant? Do they have the biggest Clue Board in the universe? Who lives there? What's an espionage? Is it a sort of omelet?”

Theodore looked down his pipe at his young apprentice. “No, Wilma,” he answered with as much patience as he could muster, “it is not an omelet. The Academy of Detection and Espionage is an important step for anyone wanting to be a detective. In fact, you can only be a proper detective if you are accepted. I went there, as did my mentor before me. Obviously you will learn a lot of practical skills from me during your apprenticeship, but it's also very important to learn the
theory
of detecting, which is what you will learn at the Academy. If you get in.”

Wilma nodded. At this point she should have asked something sensible and detective-like, but she was far too excited. So when she asked, “If I get in to the Academy, will there be amazing things like horses that can sing?” Theodore, who despite fast becoming used to dealing with Wilma's incessant questions, realized that answering anything further would be more trouble than it was worth. Sometimes, great and serious detectives just need a modicum of quiet and so, with his small apprentice jumping at his feet, Theodore sighed, retired to his study, and very gently locked the door.

“Now you've done it,” said Mrs. Speckle, shoving up her double-knitted cardigan sleeves. “Too many questions, young lady! Why don't you stop bothering poor Mr. Goodman and get on with your chores? There's plenty to be done! Less guessing and more doing! That's what I say!”

“Yes, Mrs. Speckle,” answered Wilma, pulling a long twig out from behind her ear.

“What the blue blazes!” screamed Mrs. Speckle suddenly as she paused at the back door. “The old pear tree's down! Hang on a minute,” she added, twisting on her knitted Wellington boots, “this wasn't your doing, was it, Tenderfoot?”

But for once Wilma had nothing to say. Nothing to say at all.

S
ometimes, it's difficult for small and determined girls to stop their minds whirring, but Wilma knew she would have to contain her excitement. So far, during her short apprenticeship, all Wilma had been allowed to do was write out the labels for a few Clue Bags, which, despite being essential to the everyday requirements of a detective, were still just plain paper bags with no clues in them yet. In short, it was a chore that was neither dangerous nor daring. Perhaps, Wilma thought, as she sat with a heap of small bags in front of her, when she was enrolled in the Academy she might progress to mightier tasks, like chalking outlines for dead bodies or even deducting in an official capacity. But that was all a long way off yet.

Before becoming Theodore's apprentice, Wilma had followed his every exploit by collecting newspaper and magazine clippings that she had found in Madam Skratch's wastepaper basket at the Institute. Through them she had learned about the detective's top tips, ten essential things that a budding detective should always do if he wants to solve any crime. There was eavesdropping, being circuitous, and Wilma's personal favorite—the use of disguises for cunning moments. Wilma had tried to emulate all of them as she chased after Theodore, trying to become his apprentice. She had done well, but now that she was a proper apprentice, her mentor had impressed upon her that scampering around in an unofficial role had to stop. It was time for her to behave seriously at all times (top tip number nine), to watch and learn and wait for instructions.

Having had a substantial breakfast (top tip number ten—never go detecting on an empty stomach), Wilma was ready for her big day. If she wanted to be a proper detective, it was all very well knowing about the top tips, but unless she got in to the Academy, all her dreams would be dashed. So later that morning she stood before the immense building, with the biscuits in her pocket and a paper bag that smelled of pear candies in hand, ready to give it her best shot.

Standing with her, as always, was her faithful beagle Pickle, who was so nervous on Wilma's behalf he'd been making involuntary smells for half an hour. Her mentor, Theodore P. Goodman, had also accompanied her. He had put her name forward for the Academy and, as such, his presence was the right and proper thing to have. “Eight twenty-seven,” he said, looking at his pocket watch. “I should leave you to it. Do your best. And if you get stuck, clear your mind and think logically.”

“Yes, Mr. Goodman,” answered Wilma, conjuring up her most serious face.

“There is always a simple answer to everything, Wilma,” said Theodore, twiddling the end of his mighty mustache. “Don't forget that. Well, good-bye. And good luck.” The great detective took Wilma's hand, shook it, and walked away.

Wilma took the letter from her pinafore pocket. “Eight thirty a.m. sharpish,” she whispered. “I expect that's about now, Pickle. I suppose we'd better go in. I hope they've got pencils. I haven't brought one with me.”

Pickle shook his head and made another smell. Generally speaking, small dogs don't do well under strict examination conditions, which is why they never try to learn to drive. Or become garden designers.

Wilma stared up at the Academy. The same crest that had been on the letter she was sent hung from two copper hooks above her. It was a curious box-shaped building, jet black with no windows and, even more puzzling, no front door. “Well, this is odd,” said Wilma, looking at the blank wall in front of her. “How are we supposed to take the entrance exam if we can't get in? What did the letter say? ‘It's obvious, when you think about it.' Well, I'm thinking as hard as I can, Pickle, and it's not obvious at all. How can I take the entrance exam if I can't find the entrance?”

Pickle gave a gentle whirrup and turned around on the spot. Wilma frowned and put her hands on her hips. “Just because I don't know what I'm doing,” Wilma said, holding a finger aloft, “is no reason to give in! Pickle! I have made my mind up. It is obvious. The entrance exam is finding the entrance. Start sniffing!”

As the tatty-eared beagle put his nose to the ground, Wilma stood very still. “When Mr. Goodman is contemplating and deducting,” she pronounced, “the first thing he does is remain in a quiet repose and look around him. He's always telling me that. I think this is reposing. So all I have to do now is look. Don't make a sound, Pickle. It's very important that we're practically silent.”

Pickle, unsure how to snuffle the ground without making a noise, froze and hovered his nostrils over a discarded red brick in the hope that any incriminating smell might simply waft itself up. There was something, but without a deep, loud sniff he couldn't quite be sure. Wilma, eyes darting to the left and right, scanned the exterior of the Academy for clues.

The black expanse of the building's front wall rose above her. Intricate carvings adorned the exterior, and a few ebony gargoyles of Cooper's greatest detectives through history stared down from every corner. Frowning, Wilma could see nothing to help her. She gave a frustrated groan. “It's no good,” she said, shaking her head. “I can't work it out. And you're being no help, Pickle. Stop fussing over that red brick! Wait! What's a red brick doing by a black building? Pickle! You're a genius!”

Wilma bent down to pick it up. The brick was heavy in her hand. “Well I never,” she laughed, rubbing the dust away. “Look at that! Carved into the top! Oh, Pickle! This is thrilling!”

“Foundations? Those are the things underground. The bits you can't see. Perhaps the entrance is somewhere beneath us? Like a tunnel?”

Wilma approached the front wall and began to look along the bottom of it for an underground opening. “Nothing,” she murmured. “Wait! There's a sign down here. At the base of the building! What does it say, Pickle?”

Pickle stared at the tiny bronze plaque in front of him, but as much as he would have loved to help, there was nothing he could do. He'd forgotten his reading glasses. So that was that.

Wilma got down on to her hands and knees and peered at the wall.

“Oh! Well, perhaps there isn't a tunnel. Perhaps there's an entrance there. Come on, Pickle, let's check.”

Following a large stone finger that pointed toward “Rear of Building,” the pair scampered to the left and found themselves running alongside the building down a narrow alley. The alley twisted around to the rear, and Wilma scanned the back wall of the Academy for a door. But there was no entrance to be seen. It was just another blank wall.

“Nothing here!” Wilma yelled, throwing her arms up in the air. “Oh, wait—there's a small plaque.”

“Oh, what's the point! This is crazy!”

Pickle, who had always held an odd affection for alleys and backs of buildings, lifted his nose and had a good sniff. In his experience, in places like this there was usually an overflowing garbage can to be found or a heap of tasty scraps. Wilma leaned against the Academy wall with her arms crossed. Heaving a sigh, she scuffed at the floor with the end of her sandal. The beagle, convinced he could smell an old chicken bone, wandered off to the far end of the alley. With his nose to the ground, Pickle's sharp sense of smell led him, not to a delicious chewy bone, but to a rather revolting soggy sock. All the same, he
was
a bit peckish . . .