Wilma Tenderfoot and the Case of the Putrid Poison (5 page)

Barbu's jaw tightened. If there was one thing he couldn't bear, it was being told he was small. “Our time will come, Wilma Tenderfoot,” snapped the diminutive criminal. “Of that you can be sure.” And with a toss of his hair, he swept off toward the auditorium.

Theodore shook his head. “It's not sensible to provoke our enemies, Wilma,” he chided. “You must take better care.”

“All the same,” added Inspector Lemone with a small wink. “That was
quite
good. Anyway, shall we take our seats? We've been standing up for ages. At least five minutes. My legs are killing me.”

 

As the lights went down and the first deep chords struck out from the orchestra pit, Wilma was on the edge of her seat. Pickle was also on the edge of his, but that was because he couldn't quite get the hang of it and every time he tried to sit farther back, the chair folded up on top of him. With the grand curtains across the stage parting to a smattering of unenthusiastic applause, Wilma's heart thumped with excitement and out from the wings stepped a hunched man with a face that looked as if it couldn't quite be bothered.

“That's Gorgeous Muldoon,” whispered the Inspector. “He's the compère. That's the fellow who keeps everything moving along.”

Wilma nodded and then turned to see that Pickle had almost disappeared down the back of his theatre seat.

“Welcome! Welcome!” Gorgeous began in an almost sleepy drawl. “Welcome to the Valiant Vaudeville Theatre! Prepare to be a-mazed, a-stonished, and even a-fraid! You'll be dazzled. You'll be bewildered! You'll be weeping in your seats! And not just because of the price of the tickets!”

Inspector Lemone laughed. “It's funny,” he explained to Wilma, who was extracting Pickle from the mess he'd got himself into, “because it's true. They were quite expensive. Probably explains why they are so few people here. Practically empty. Last time I came it was packed! Mind you, I think I read something about a terrible musical they put on that lost them loads of money. Audiences have been down ever since. They need to do something new. Pep it up! Then they'll have people flooding back in!”

“Shhhh,” said a woman in front, turning to give the Inspector a scolding look.

“So,” the compère continued, his voice picking up slightly, “ladies and gentlemen! Are you ready to be chilled to the bone?To be baffled and befuddled? Are you ready for a mighty mind-reading mystery? Then please put your hands together and welcome . . . Sabbatica!”

A strange, flute-like instrument piped from the orchestra, filling the auditorium with a haunting air. The lights dimmed to the faintest of glows. Smoke poured across the stage, giving it an aspect so spooky that Wilma, suddenly feeling a little anxious, reached out for Pickle's paw. The flute played on and a dull light fell on the center of the stage. Wilma's eyes followed the dim beam and she could just make out something moving upward through the carpet of smoke. Gasps filled the auditorium as from seemingly nowhere a woman appeared, rising slowly, shrouded in black, her head wrapped in a purple turban. Pickle gave a small whimper. Wilma gripped his paw tighter.

Sabbatica's arms slowly unfolded from inside her voluminous robes, and with the music reaching its peak, her head lifted from her chest until her face, dramatically lit by the single spotlight, was upturned toward the back of the theatre. Her eyes were wild and flaming, her mouth opening and closing as if she was about to speak . . . but then a startled expression crossed her face. Seemingly struggling to breathe, she stumbled forward and with a sudden, desperate clasp of her throat, Sabbatica slumped to the floor.

“This is a very dramatic act,” whispered Wilma to Mr. Goodman, sitting on her right. “I wonder what she's going to do next.”

But Theodore was already on his feet. “Someone help that woman!” came a cry from the back of the stalls. A scream rang out from somewhere in the wings and Gorgeous Muldoon rushed back onto the stage. Kneeling by Sabbatica's collapsed body, he took her hand in his. “She's dead!” he wailed. “Sabbatica is dead! Oh, help us! Is there a detective in the house?”

“Yes,” Wilma shouted back, jumping up and pointing to Mr. Goodman. “And me. I'm the apprentice!”

 

Do you remember the “Yet” at the end of Chapter Three? Cancel it.

T
he audience at the Valiant was clearly rattled. Some children were crying, a hairy builder from Hillbottom had fainted, and a wiry-looking woman from Under Whelmed had tried to raise everyone's spirits by singing a spirited version of the Cooper national anthem, only to be told to pipe down by all around her. As Wilma climbed up onto the stage behind Mr. Goodman and the Inspector, a dread chill ran through her. Looking around, she recognized a few faces from the pictures in the foyer: Mrs. Wanderlip, the ventriloquist, and Countess Honey Piccio, the lady who tore paper. Both were in tears, hands clutched to their mouths. Mr. Goodman knelt next to the body and Wilma gulped a little to steel her nerves. She was an apprentice detective now, she thought to herself, giving her new badge a quick glance. This was part of the job, however unpleasant it may be. She would just have to be brave. In fact, according to the Golden Rules, it was her job to be more than brave—she had to be
useful
.

“Shall I chalk around the body, Mr. Goodman?” she asked quietly, wanting to be of help. “I practiced on a dead badger last week.”

But Theodore's attentions were elsewhere. A voice was calling from the back of the dress circle. “I say! Goodman!” the voice rang out. “Shall I come down and lend a hand? It's me! Titus Kooks. Got Penbert with me too!”

Theodore shielded his eyes from the overhead lights and looked outward. “That would be splendid, Dr. Kooks!” he shouted back. “Your help would be greatly appreciated.”

Dr. Kooks, the island's forensic scientist, and Penbert, his efficient assistant, were on the stage in moments. Penbert, who never liked to do anything unless she was wearing her regulation white coat and clogs, was visibly anxious. “It's not proper procedure otherwise,” she explained.

“There's some pink dressing gowns in the wings,” suggested Malcolm Poppledore, the pimply props boy, who had wandered onto the stage along with the rest of the shaken actors and crew. “I could get you those, if you like?”

Penbert tightened her lips. It would have to do. “All right,” she reluctantly agreed. “They're better than nothing.”

“Hello,” said Wilma, giving Penbert and Dr. Kooks a nod. “We've met before. When I came to the lab during the Frozen Hearts case. I was dressed like a plumber. So was Pickle. I've got a badge now,” she added, tapping the silver crest on her pinafore strap.

The dressing gowns that Malcolm handed over were a vivid pink satin with three-quarter-length arms finished with a fluffy trim. Dr. Kooks took his and pulled it on without a second thought. “Right, then!” he boomed. “Dead body. Let's have a look!”

Sabbatica's body was slumped, face down, center stage. Her purple turban was now askew, and the dark, heavy robes of her costume had fallen across the lower half of her face. As Dr. Kooks peered toward her, one piercing blue eye glared lifelessly back. “Well,” he announced after a quick examination, “I can safely say she's dead. In fact, I'd go so far as to say she's very dead.”

“Very dead,” repeated Inspector Lemone, shaking his head. “Bad business. Write that down, Wilma. Might be important.”

“No, don't bother writing that down, Wilma,” interjected Theodore with as much patience as he could muster. “I am aware she is dead, Dr. Kooks, but can you tell me why or how?”

Dr. Kooks blinked, tapped his considerable belly with his fingers, and blew some air out through his lips. “No,” he finally replied. “No. I can't.”

“It might have been a heart attack,” muttered Wilma, licking the end of her pencil and reaching for her notebook. “Collapsing like that with no warning.” She turned to a scowling Gorgeous Muldoon. “Did she eat a lot of cheese? Late at night? Don't worry. I am an apprentice detective.” She pointed to her badge.

“Cheese does not cause heart attacks, Wilma,” corrected Theodore, standing up from the body. “Unless eaten in massive quantities. In any event, I don't think that was the cause of death. And stop asking people questions. I think it's best if you just stand there and observe. I shall deal with this.”

Wilma tried her best not to look too disappointed, as she was itching to write something in her brand-new official detective's notebook, but now that she was in Mr. Goodman's employ it was best to do as she was told. Most of the time. Instead, Wilma flicked through her notebook and read some of the articles that she had transferred there from her Clue Ring. There was the one about the Case of the Dropped H and the two-page picture special of the Case of the Moldy Knees, but there was nothing about what to do when a mind reader expires in mysterious circumstances. Perhaps the detective's top tips that she'd written in the front might help her. “Number six . . .” she muttered, tapping the relevant page with her pencil, “always write things down.”

No one was paying any attention to her, of course, but it did make her feel a little bit more useful and apprentice-ish.

Theodore, with a small twitch of his mustache, bent close to the Inspector for a quiet word. “Scan the audience for Barbu D'Anvers. Quietly, though. Interested to know where the fellow is.”

“Think it was him, Goodman?” he whispered, one eye winking. “Wouldn't be in the least bit surprised.”

“Hang on!” Penbert called out suddenly as she crouched next to the body. “There's something on the floor. Looks as if it's dripped out of her mouth.”

Everyone turned to look. Penbert, very carefully, pulled back Sabbatica's heavy costume. Her face was as white as lilies, but around her mouth, at the corners and on her lips, there was a strange yellowish foam. “Does anyone have some gloves I can borrow?” she asked, looking over her shoulder.

“I've got a pair of rubber gloves,” answered Malcolm Poppledore.

“I have some lace ones,” offered the paper-tearing Countess.

“Rubber, please,” answered Penbert, still staring at the bubbling foam. Malcolm stepped forward and passed her the gloves.

“Pooh,” he said, waving a hand in front of his nose as he did so. “Something smells terrible!”

“It's the foam,” explained Penbert, snapping on a glove and sticking a finger into it. “It's positively putrid. This is definitely not a heart attack,” she added, casting a glance up at Theodore. “In fact, if I was to make an assumption, which I'm not used to and, strictly speaking, is against every scientific protocol and I haven't made anything near to a detailed report or any sort of proper analysis, let alone logged it, bagged it, OR tagged it—”

“Do get on with it, Penbert!” roared Dr Kooks.

“Well,” said Penbert, pushing her thick glasses very firmly up her nose. “I think she's been poisoned!”

A gasp rang out around the auditorium. “Poisoned!” cried a deep, trembling voice from the wings. “Dear Sabbatica poisoned?” Wilma spun around. “Say it isn't so!”

A woman wafted onto the stage. Her frame was delicate, like a bird's, but her presence was magnificent, like a lion's. A small ripple of applause broke out in the audience. “Thank you, thank you,” the woman acknowledged with a weak wave of her hand. “But please! Save your applause for happier times! Oh, Sabbatica! Oh!”

And with that she too drifted to the floor—in a precise heap. The audience gasped again.

“Not her as well!” yelled Wilma, rushing over.

“It's all right,” said a scrappy-looking girl in spectacles, hurrying to the woman's side. “Miss Lovely is often prone to swooning. She has a very fragile constitution.”

“Ooooh,” whispered Inspector Lemone, straightening his waistcoat. “That's Cecily Lovely. I've got all her records. And I've seen all her plays. Wonder if she'd like a corn crumble?”

“Not now, Inspector,” replied Theodore, rushing to help the fallen diva to her feet. “Madam, can I be of assistance?”

“Scraps!” mumbled the great actress, weakly reaching for her assistant. “My smelling salts . . . dressing room table . . . I must . . . oh!” And with that she faded again, a little more dramatically, and this time with her face better turned to the light, because as all ladies of a certain age know, if you're going to faint, make sure you show off your best side as you do it.

“I'll fetch her smelling salts,” said Scraps, her bony legs rattling inside her shoes. “She needs air. Waft something at her, would you?” she added, looking at Wilma anxiously. Sometimes, people in the same boat are drawn toward one another and, as she stared at Scraps in her raggedy patchwork dress and with her limp brown hair a mess of tangles, Wilma realized that here was someone hard at it, just like her.

Wilma nodded. “Don't worry,” she said softly. “I'll waft my notebook at her. At least that way I'll get to use it today.”

“Thank you.” Scraps smiled weakly. “I'd better hurry.”

“Sabbatica's dead and Cecily still has to be the center of attention,” grumbled Loranda Links, the contortionist, pushing past Wilma as she walked toward the wings.

“I hope you're not going anywhere, Miss Links,” said Theodore quickly. “I'm afraid under the circumstances I am going to have to ask everyone who works here not to leave the theatre for the time being. Given that we're dealing with a poison,” Theodore added, turning to the Inspector, “I think we can assume it would have been administered before the performance. In light of that, you can allow the audience to leave, Inspector. Oh, and any sighting of our friend?”