Wilma Tenderfoot and the Case of the Putrid Poison (8 page)

He wandered over to the sign and stared at it. “Bit more blood there, I think,” he commented, pointing with his cane.

 

“Today, Wilma,” began Theodore as they strode through the theatre doors into the lobby, “we shall begin the more formal side of our investigation. Let's familiarize ourselves with the backstage areas of the theatre, and I think that chat with young Scraps might be something you could concentrate on. But I want you to tread carefully. Let's practice. We'll pretend I'm Scraps and you're going to ask me some questions. Off you go.”

Wilma blinked, frowned, then, scrunching her nose up, said, “Hello, Scraps. Did Cecily Lovely kill Sabbatica?”

“Now,” the great detective corrected gently, “you see, that's what I would call a little heavyhanded. Subtlety is the key, Wilma. Start informally. Find out how long she's been working for Cecily. What her chores are. This way you will establish trust. Once you have her trust, you can ask more probing questions. Questions about Cecily, her personality, her likes and dislikes.”

“And whether she killed Sabbatica,” added Wilma, nodding.

Theodore looked down at his very young apprentice. “Hmmm,” he mumbled. “Perhaps this isn't such a good idea. Let's put you on backstage duties instead. The midday show is due to start soon. Stay in the wings, Wilma. Get a sense for the lay of the land.”

Wilma looked blank. Pickle looked blanker. “You do understand what ‘lay of the land' means, don't you?”

“Not really, Mr. Goodman,” replied Wilma, rubbing her cheek. “Is it one of those special detective phrases, like thinking wonkily out of boxes?”

“Sort of,” answered Theodore patiently. “It means to assess the area you're in. Get to know it. Become familiar with exits and passageways. That sort of thing. Do you think you can do that?”

Wilma nodded. Being a detective's apprentice was proving to be quite hard work. And involved lots of strange phrases. But even though she was small, Wilma was very determined, so she would try her best, follow orders like she was supposed to, and hope that she didn't muck things up too spectacularly.

“Good. You and Pickle head off there then, and the Inspector and I will go and make inquiries as to whether Sabbatica had eaten anything she shouldn't. Then I need to see the Baron. I want to find out more about the financial difficulties the theatre is in. May not be connected to what happened, but we can never be too careful.”

 

The backstage area of the Valiant Vaudeville Theatre was buzzing with activity. As Wilma made her way into the wings, she could hear the audience coming into the auditorium on the other side of the safety curtain. There was an air of excitement. Ushers were shouting at people to sit in the right seats, people were calling out for rotten apple-core cones, and somewhere, over it all, there was one lone child wailing.

Onstage, Malcolm Poppledore was ticking things off his props list and running around yelling every time he couldn't find something. A small, red-faced woman was carrying great piles of costumes and hanging them in dressing areas in the wings lit with tiny lanterns.

“Mrs. Grumbletubs!” shouted Malcolm, spotting her. “You haven't seen Eric Ohio's cowboy hat, have you?”

The costume mistress shouted back over her shoulder, “Laundry room. Wringer. On top.”

“Eric Ohio?” asked Wilma, casting a look down at Pickle. “Who's that? His name's not on our suspect list.”

“And neither should it be,” rattled Malcolm as he ran past. “He's Mrs. Wanderlip's ventriloquist dummy. Geoffrey!” he shouted to a sullen-looking boy watering a small potted plant in the wings. “Move that scenery for me, would you? Excuse me, please! House opens in five! In five, everyone!”

Wilma looked over at Geoffrey. He was slightly tubby and was wearing a threadbare sweater that was tucked into a pair of trousers that were slightly too short for him. He had a belt around his waist from which hung a variety of hooks and wrenches and a pair of battered leather gloves. He was also wearing one red shoe and one blue shoe, which struck Wilma as being a little odd. “He doesn't look very happy, does he, Pickle? Perhaps I'd better write that down. I should also write down where all the exits are, like Mr. Goodman told me. Mind you, it's quite hard to work it out. It's dark back here. Be careful, Pickle, there are ropes everywhere. So Malcolm just walked off over there,” she added, pointing with the end of her pencil. “That's to the right of the stage.”

“No, that's stage left,” mumbled Geoffrey, who was dragging a large piece of painted canvas toward them.

Wilma, readying her pencil, followed Geoffrey's eye line. “But it's over there.” Wilma pointed again, toward the door. “That's the right.”

“Yes.” Geoffrey nodded. “But right is stage left. And left is stage right.”

“Hang on a minute,” said Wilma, putting one hand on her hip. “Is this some sort of hocus-pocus? How can left be right and right be left? Which one is which?”

“Well, to the right is left,” said Geoffrey. “And to the left is right. And upstage is the downstage. And downstage is the upstage. It's easy when you know how,” he added, before wandering off.

“Well, this complicates everything,” said Wilma, looking both left and right. “Upstage, downstage, stage left—I don't know whether I'm coming or going. What's wrong with just saying over there and leaving it at that? And I tell you something else, Pickle. That boy wanted to confuse me. You know what that means . . .”

Pickle snorted.

“That he may be sneaky. I'll make a note. And contemplate that later. Oh! This lay-of-the-land business is harder than it looks. It's making my head spin.” Wilma heaved a small sigh and chewed her lip. “Maybe we should go and see Scraps,” she wondered, standing back to avoid a large sandbag that was being lowered from a rope above her. “I expect Mr. Goodman would be very pleased if I managed to solve this case in one probing. What do you think, Pickle?”

The beagle, sensing that this was one of those moments where the less he had to do with something, the better, lay on his back and waved his legs in the air.

“Snooping about?” said a voice behind them. Wilma spun around.

“Not snooping, thank you, Janty,” she replied with a sniff. “I am conducting official detective business.”

The boy kicked at a rope with the end of his foot, his dark mop of hair falling forward into his eyes. “But you're not an official detective, are you? In fact, from where I'm standing, you're nothing at all.”

Wilma's lips tightened. Having been at the Institute for Woeful Children for ten years, she knew full well when someone was trying to annoy her. Standing a little taller and straighter, she matched him head-on. “I'm an apprentice. I'm learning how to be a detective. Rather like how you're learning to be rotten to the core. One of us is going to achieve something in life. One of us is not.”

Janty glared at Wilma through his heavy bangs. “My master owns this theatre. Soon he'll own everything. And, when he does, I shall have everything and you'll achieve nothing. I shall see to it.”

“Stealing and double dealing is no achievement, Janty. If that's the way you do things, then I'd rather have nothing. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have work to do.”

Janty, sensing that he had been outplayed, grunted and disappeared behind a large painted canvas. Wilma shook her head. “In my experience,” she explained to Pickle, “when boys make a fuss, it's because they want attention. We must try to make him see sense.”

Pickle snorted again. He understood nothing of the mystery of small boys and the workings of their spinning minds, but he did know one thing—Wilma always looked for the good in people. So, as much as he would quite like to bite Janty, he wouldn't. For her sake.

“Hey, you! You with the messy hair,” said a voice to their left. It was Loranda Links, the contortionist. “Have you seen Malcolm? He's supposed to help me grease up.”

Loranda looked extremely glamorous. Her hair was a golden swirl of intricate braids studded with flashing jewels, the makeup around her eyes was deep and smoky, and her lips were a vivid red. Wilma, taking her in, was most impressed with Loranda's costume. She was wearing a green scale-decorated leotard cut to look as if she were being squeezed by a python. It was all very racy.

“He went off to find a hat,” Wilma said, pointing. “That way, stage up, down-over-there.”

Loranda held out a large, slippery tub. “Then you'll have to help me. I'm on second after the Great Sylvester. Just rub some of this onto my back, would you? And smear it on good and thick. Or my legs don't slide down so well.”

Wilma took the tub and scooped out a large handful. It was cold and slimy. “Do you know Cecily Lovely?” she asked as she rubbed the grease into Loranda's shoulder.

“Of course I do,” said Loranda, bending to stare at her face in a mirror. “She's the show's big star. Or so she likes to think. If you ask me, she's past it. Not that Gorgeous seems to notice. He's like a lovesick puppy around her. Does everything she asks. She's not remotely interested, of course. Oh! There was no love lost between Cecily and Sabbatica! Cecily can pretend she's upset, but we all know the truth. She's glad Sabbatica's dead! She'd be even gladder if we were all dead! You know why? Because she'd be the only one left on the bill. And poisoned too! The woman's weapon of choice. Probably sprayed it onto her! She's always wafting around with that atomizer of hers. Or got Gorgeous to bump Sabbatica off! They're probably in it together. And have you seen the crow's-feet around her eyes? She says she's twenty-seven! Fifty-seven, more like! If you want my opinion, she's a terrible singer. Anyway. Thanks for helping with my back. Let's hope I break a leg! Where's Scraps? I gave her my slipper to mend . . . Scraps! SCRAPS!”

“Goodness,” whispered Wilma as the contortionist wandered off to limber up. “Don't theatrical types like to gossip! I don't think this case is going to take much probing at all!” She looked down at her sticky hands and tutted. “Covered in grease, Pickle. I think there was a handkerchief on the props table. I can use that to get clean.”

Wilma's mind was so whirring with all the information she'd received that she failed to notice a shadow unfold from behind a painted flat to her left and vanish back into the darkness. The only thing that alerted Wilma to someone's presence was a creaking sound. Pickle's ears cocked. Wilma turned around. “Hello?” she called out. “Janty, is that you? Is someone there?” But nobody replied. Instead, out burst Malcolm, arms full of knives, which he dropped onto the props table.

“Excuse me! Excuse me!” he panted. “Safety curtain's going up! Show starts in one minute! Got to polish Mr. Sylvester's knives! Now, where did I put that cloth? Ah-ha!”

“Oooh,” said Wilma, realizing that the cloth she'd wiped her greasy hands on was now being used to polish knife handles. “I don't know if that's a good—”

“My knives, Malcolm!” boomed an impressive-looking man in a pair of baggy pantaloons. He was bare-chested, had immense upper arms and a face that looked as if it had been chiseled out of granite. It was the Great Sylvester. “Trixie!” he added, turning to his scantily clad assistant. “Get into position on the target board!”

“Oooh, wait!” said Wilma, but to no avail. The orchestra had struck up their overture, the curtains were opening, and the Great Sylvester was striding onto the stage. A polite applause rippled through the audience.

“Still not many in,” sighed Malcolm, taking a quick peep through the side curtain. “Oh well. Have a good show, everyone!”

“Ladies and gentlemen!” the Great Sylvester roared, banging his knives together. “Prepare to stare death in the face as I throw these razorsharp knives at my glamorous assistant.”

Wilma rushed to the wing and grabbed the corner of the curtain there. Those handles were covered in grease! Somehow she had to do something. But before she could raise any sort of alarm the Great Sylvester, one arm aloft and knife poised, suddenly grabbed at his throat with his free hand and slumped to the floor. As he fell, the raised knife in his other hand slipped from his fingers and with the force of his fall, propelled itself through the air. There was a blood-curdling, devastating scream.

“Oh no, Pickle,” said Wilma, hand reaching for her mouth. “I think I've just mucked things up spectacularly.”

 

Oops.

W
ilma could hardly bear to look. She'd only been enrolled as an official apprentice for a day and here she was, partly responsible for the instant demise of a woman in a sequined blouse, which she was pretty sure meant she had definitely broken Golden Rule number five! How was she going to explain this to Mr. Goodman? How would she ever forgive herself?

The detective and Inspector Lemone had come running down to the wings as soon as they'd heard Trixie's scream. When they got there, Wilma was still clutching the curtain, her face buried deep within it. Pickle, equally traumatized, was lying on the floor with his paws over his eyes.

“Oh no, Goodman,” said the Inspector as he stared out on to the stage. “Looks like we've had another one.”

“Wilma,” said Theodore, pulling her face out of the curtain. “Did you see something? What happened?”

Wilma's wobbling chin was pressed against her chest. She couldn't look up at her hero. “I'm very sorry, Mr. Goodman. But I think I've caused a murder. The thing was, my hands were greasy. And I wiped them and then the cloth got used on the knives and then they were greasy and . . .” Very slowly, she unpinned her precious apprentice detective badge and held it up. “I expect you'll want this back.”