Wilma Tenderfoot and the Case of the Putrid Poison (4 page)

“Yes, he is. He's called Pickle,” replied Wilma, a bit shell-shocked.

“Good. Though that was sort of a factual question. Encouraging is something a bit different, isn't it? Hang on. I'll have another go. Umm . . . well done. Again. And we're very glad to have you here at the Academy of Detection and Espionage. Super-pleased.”

“Where's everyone else?” asked Wilma.

“Everyone else?” replied Kite, eyes widening. “What do you mean?”

“All the other pupils. And teachers.”

“Oh!” answered Kite, looking off into the middle distance. “There isn't anyone else. You're the only pupil. I'm the only teacher.”

“I see,” said Wilma, frowning. “So when do I start taking classes?”

“Classes?” answered Kite, looking a little panicked. “Oh. Well, we don't really do classes. I expect I'll just send you some homework. Like a correspondence course or something like that. It's all mostly in the book. Is there anything specific you'd like to learn?”

Wilma was momentarily silent. She had always been of the opinion that a teacher was someone who was not only in charge but had a vague sense of what she was doing (physics teachers excepted), yet her new headmistress, the one she had just spent the best part of a morning trying to find, seemed to be in such a muddle that it was quite hard not to feel a small stab of disappointment. Still, Wilma had always thought it best to show due respect for her elders and so, very politely, she reached for the luggage tag in her pinafore pocket. “You see,” she began, “as well as wanting to learn how to be a proper detective, I'd like to find out where I come from. The thing is I was left at the gates of the Institute for Woeful Children when I was a baby. And this was tied around my wrist,” she said, thrusting the tag toward Kite. “It says ‘Because they gone.' But I don't know what was because they gone. Or who they were. Or even where they gone. I don't know anything. And then, on top of that, Madam Skratch, who's the matron at the Institute, told me last week that I've got a relative who's still alive. And I'd quite like to find them.” She fell quiet once more.

Kite, who seemed a little bewildered, looked down at her new pupil and swallowed. “Golly. That's a puzzle and no mistake. Well!” she added, slapping a hand to her thigh. “I think that sounds like an excellent school project! So why don't you make a start. Send me the occasional report. And then we'll take it from there?Yes?”

“Umm, okay then,” replied Wilma, feeling even more baffled.

Kite turned and picked up a pair of leather goggles from her desk. “Super! Good! Well, that's sorted out then. By the way . . . did you bring the paper bag that smells of pear candies?”

“Oh! I did, yes!” remembered Wilma with a start. “It's here. Would you like it?”

“Yes, please,” replied Kite, nodding.

Wilma, who had tucked it up her sleeve earlier, pulled it out. “There you go,” she said, grinning. “I wondered why I had to bring it. I expect you're going to teach me some brilliant detective technique or something? You know, to get me started?”

“No, I just like the smell of them,” explained Kite, taking a good, deep sniff. “Lovely. Thanks so very much. Well, I suppose that's the end of the induction. Welcome to the Academy. I look forward to your first report. I'd best be off. Got to find a thing. Think I left it there. But then I might not have. Anyway! Good-bye!”

And with that she disappeared through a panel in the wall.

Wilma was stunned. She looked down at the badge on her lapel. It was the school crest with the words “Apprentice Detective” written on it. “Well,” she said proudly. “At least I got in, Pickle. And there's no turning back now. Nothing and nobody stopsWilma Tenderfoot!” And she headed for the way out.

 

What a lovely start to the story. Wilma's done very well and nothing terrible has happened to anyone.

Yet.

“
W
here is she?” bellowed Inspector Lemone, poking his head around the door to Theodore's study. “I demand to see her! Where's the cleverest girl on Cooper?” Inspector Lemone, a fleshy man with a face shaped like a balloon, wasn't terribly good at inspecting. In many ways, it was slightly baffling that he'd become an Inspector at all, especially in the light of a school report that read quite clearly: “This boy must never become a police officer! NEVER!” Still, grown-ups often end up doing jobs that they clearly have no talent for. Just go and ask any passing adults about their boss. They'll be happy to explain.

Thank goodness then that Inspector Lemone had Theodore P. Goodman to rely on. He couldn't have been more happy that he was working alongside the island's most famous and brilliant detective, principally because it meant he didn't have to do much thinking and could instead concentrate on his real love: eating biscuits. He didn't even have to do any apprehending, as Captain Brock and the 2nd Hawks Brigade were on hand for all manner of capturing and detaining, so in many respects Inspector Lemone wasn't required to do anything at all. Even though he was clearly useless, Inspector Lemone was a loyal companion and would do anything to help Theodore. Not only that, but he was very enthusiastic to encourage young Wilma.

As she saw her portly friend, Wilma beamed. There had been a large fuss made of her since she returned from the Academy and, as a treat, Mr. Goodman and the Inspector were taking her to the Valiant Vaudeville Theatre, somewhere Wilma had always wanted to go. Mrs. Speckle had tried for an hour to tidy Wilma up and make her look respectable, but, after the young girl's socks had fallen down for the fifth time and her plaits had undone themselves for the tenth, she had given up and put a bow tie on Pickle instead. “Well, at least her pinafore is clean!” she said, shaking her head as she presented Wilma to her employer. “That's the best I can do!”

Inspector Lemone, who had a burning fondness for Theodore's housekeeper, always went a bit quiet whenever he was in her presence. Either that or he would blurt out something stupid like: “Do you like eggs? I do.”

Mrs. Speckle was, of course, oblivious. She was only interested in getting Mr. Goodman his peppermint tea and corn crumbles. She certainly didn't have time to be paying any attention to slightly silly inspectors or small girls with wayward hair.

Before Wilma joined Theodore's household, the incredibly world-famous detective and the Inspector had been known to travel around Cooper on a tandem bicycle (much to the slightly overweight Inspector Lemone's dismay). Lemone
hated
riding on the tandem. Still, there was one benefit of being forced to ride on a bicycle made for two—because he always sat at the back, he could just
pretend
to be pedaling.

In order to accommodate the household's new arrivals, Theodore had arranged for a small two-seater trailer to be fitted to the back of his bicycle. This was a substantial thrill for Wilma, who always wanted to follow Mr. Goodman and the Inspector wherever they went.

“Goggles on!” said Wilma as she pulled a matching pair to her own over her beagle's ears. “Off to the theatre, Pickle! Imagine that!”

Pickle did not respond. He just hoped they had good seats.

The Valiant Vaudeville Theatre was in the center of Coop, the island's capital town. The ride there was exhilarating. Bouncing along in the trailer, wind streaming through her hair, Wilma loved every second of it. Because it was a special occasion, Mr. Goodman pulled up at one of Cooper's many Sugarcane Swizzle Dispensing Taps, which were dotted all over the west side of the island. Sugarcane Swizzle was Cooper's finest fizzy drink, made from the crushed pulp of the indigenous Sugarcane Swizzle tree, and as Wilma gulped from the flask that Mr. Goodman had filled, she couldn't think of a finer start to their evening.

Cooper Island was divided into two parts. There was the affluent Farside to the west and the downtrodden Lowside to the east. Having been brought up at the Institute for Woeful Children, Wilma had spent most of her life to date on the dreary Lowside, but now that she was living on the Farside with Mr. Goodman, Wilma was forever amazed at the wondrous differences, like the Sugarcane Swizzle on tap, the air of sunny dispositions, and the splendid buildings, of which the Valiant Vaudeville Theatre was no exception. It was a grand old building, covered with golden friezes of dancing scenes and dramatic moments, topped off with a dark blue dome smothered in silver stars. As Theodore squeezed the brakes of the tandem and came to a stop, Wilma stared up at it with her mouth open. “Wowzees,” she whispered in awe.

Inspector Lemone was struggling to adjust his raincoat, which had somehow managed to blow itself over his head during the journey, meaning he was totally unable to see anything. “I am pedaling!” he shouted, not realizing they'd come to a stop. “Golly gosh, Goodman! Are we going uphill?”

“It's all right, Inspector,” answered Theodore, undoing his bicycle clips from the bottom of his trousers. “You can dismount now.”

“Can I really?” answered the Inspector, one eye finding its way to a buttonhole. “Ah yes. I knew we were here really! Just wanted to keep everyone on their toes and all that!”

As they entered the lobby, Wilma sparkled with excitement. Pictures of artistes appearing on the bill adorned the walls: Loranda Links, the contortionist; Mrs. Wanderlip, ventriloquist; Claiborne Wordette, bird impersonator; Sabbatica, mind reader and woman of mystery; Countess Honey Piccio, the renowned paper tearer; the Great Sylvester, knife thrower and daredevil; Gorgeous Muldoon, the resident comic compère; and in pride of place, in an enormous gilded frame, a picture of the most famous singing and acting diva on Cooper, Cecily Lovely. Wilma gazed upward. They all looked wonderful. She couldn't wait.

“Apple cores!” shouted an usher in a maroon jacket, all gold brocade and buttons. “Get your rotten apple cores!” A tray was hanging around his neck filled with paper cones of rotting fruit.

“What are they for?” asked Wilma, giving the Inspector a nudge.

“For throwing,” explained Inspector Lemone. “Oooh. Box of mini corn crumbles. Better get a couple. Do you want one, Goodman? My treat.”

“Well, I do love a corn crumble,” answered Theodore, mustache twitching at the thought of his favorite biscuits. “And . . .”

But before Theodore could say one more word, Wilma had tugged at his sleeve. He looked down. Her eyes were wide and staring and she was pointing in the direction of the theatre entrance. There, standing in the doorway, was Barbu D'Anvers.

Barbu D'Anvers, arch villain and Mr. Goodman's number one nemesis, was the ghastliest man on Cooper. Like all evil men, he had devoted his life to dodging, dealing, and being utterly diabolical. His purpose—to somehow amass a fortune so gigantic that one day he would be able to buy Cooper Island, rule it with a rod of iron, and open up a center for people who liked built-up shoes (as fashionable attire, not for medicinal purposes—he wasn't short, oh no). Thankfully, he hadn't managed it yet, but that wasn't going to stop him trying.

He was Mr. Goodman's thorniest adversary, and despite coming up against him time and time again, Barbu had always managed to escape the claws of justice. As he stood, the flames of the lamplights burning behind him, Barbu was flanked by his hefty sidekick, Tully, who at that precise moment was struggling with his master's top hat and sizeable black velvet cloak, and his young charge, Janty.

A pang of regret shot through Wilma. It was only a matter of weeks ago that Wilma had encountered this dreadful man for the first time, having previously only read about his dastardly doings in the Cooper press. She couldn't
stand
him. He was rude, foul, and malignant. And, what was worse, he was leading Janty astray. During the Case of the Frozen Hearts, Janty's poor father, Visser Haanstra, had died a horrible death and Theodore, on finding the boy, had offered him his friendship. But Janty, determined to lead a life of crime like his father, had fallen for the devilish promises of D'Anvers and rather than turning his back on a life of wrongdoing, he seemed set to embrace it. Wilma glared at Barbu. As far as she was concerned, it was
all
his fault.

“What's
he
doing here, Mr. Goodman?” whispered Wilma, gripping her mentor's forearm.

“Sadly,” replied Theodore with a stern look toward his old enemy, “anybody can come to the theatre. Even if they are rotten to the core. I'm sure he wants to see the show. But we shall keep an eye on him nonetheless. You can never be too sure when Barbu D'Anvers is around.”

“Barbu D'Anvers?” asked Inspector Lemone, mouth full of biscuits. “The very rogue! He's the dirtiest sort of skunk! Don't even look at him, Wilma. Just give me a chance to knock him down, Goodman!”

“Well, well,” sneered the tiny villain as he swaggered toward them. “If it isn't Theodore P. Goody-Goody-Goodman. And that revolting girl of yours.”

“Wilma Tenderfoot,” said Janty, curling his lip.

“Yes, I remember you,” added Barbu, poking at her pinafore with his cane. “Which is never a good thing. You and I have some unfinished business.”

“I'm not afraid of you!” Wilma burst out, pushing past Mr. Goodman's protective hand on her shoulder. “I'm an official apprentice detective now. I've got a badge to prove it!”

Barbu screwed up his face. “Got a badge to prove it?” he mimicked. “Did you hear that, Janty? She's got a baaaaadge. Oooh. I'm terrified!”

Janty laughed cruelly.

“Why don't you pick on someone your own size!” answered Wilma, now almost nose to nose with the villain as Pickle growled protectively. “Oh, hang on a minute,” she added with a twinkle, “you are!”