Wilma Tenderfoot: The Case of the Fatal Phantom (12 page)

“These are my house guests, father,” Tarquin blustered. “They came to visit me just as the snow was worsening. Naturally, I couldn’t let them leave. Not when the storm is raging. I would have said something, but what with all this other unpleasantness, I never found the right moment and—”

“Lord Blackheart,” interrupted Theodore, “house guests or no, I feel I must inform you that the man with your daughter is none other than Barbu D’Anvers, a notorious Criminal Element. I am not suggesting that he has as yet done anything untoward in this house, but his presence is a cause for concern.”

“Well said, Mr. Goodman,” announced Wilma, giving Barbu her crossest stare.

“Criminal Element? In my house? Then I shall ask you to leave, sir. Immediately!” bellowed Lord Blackheart.

“Oh, always sticking your nose in where it’s not wanted, Goodman,” said Barbu with a dismissive wave of his hand. “I’m afraid I can’t leave,” he went on, turning to address Lord Blackheart. “The thing is, your son owes me a great deal of money.”

Tarquin reddened.

“And I shall remain here until I have my satisfaction.” Barbu smirked. “I’m sure you wouldn’t want all of Cooper to know that the Blackhearts can’t pay their debts. The honor of your family name would be stained forever.”

Lord Blackheart bristled. “You’re playing a ghastly game, D’Anvers. That sounds dangerously close to blackmail, sir!”

“He has been frightfully kind to me, Father,” piped up Belinda, stepping forward. “Don’t be too harsh on him. It’s not his fault Tarquin’s an idiot.”

“Easy now!” protested her brother.

Lord Blackheart, purple with rage, began to roar. “I don’t care how kind he’s been. He’s threatening the good name of this family. And as for you, Tarquin, how dare you bring this man into our lives! Like a fox in the henhouse. Well, I shall teach you a lesson here and now. You are forthwith DISINHERITED. You shall get not one penny!”

“But, Father …” pleaded Tarquin.

“Oh, that’s convenient,” whispered Barbu behind his hand to Janty. “Though we’d better accelerate our plans with the girl before every Criminal Element on the island waltzes up with a bunch of daffodils.”

“I would suggest,” interrupted Fenomina loudly, raising a hand, “given that the spirit world is a volatile and tremulous place, that bringing a sense of calm to tonight’s proceedings is of the utmost importance.”

“Yes!” barked Barbu, waving his cane in the psychic’s direction. “What she said! Let’s all hurry up and find out where this treasure is that I’ve heard so much about!”

“For now it seems I have no choice,” snarled Lord Blackheart, staring angrily at his son. “For the sake of the good name of this family, Barbu D’Anvers must stay. Now let’s get on with this infernal séance. Belinda! Sit down!”

As the youngest Blackheart took her seat the room fell silent. You could hear a pin drop. The only sound Wilma was aware of was her heart thumping in her chest. She reached down and put a reassuring hand on Pickle’s head. He was as stiff as a board and trembling. “There’s no such thing as ghosts,” she chanted under her breath. “No such—” Suddenly, behind the psychic, one of the heavy velvet curtains billowed out, sending a startled shock wave through the gathering. A terrifying chill entered the room. Wilma gasped.

“Probably just a draft,” muttered Inspector Lemone, wiping his brow anxiously. “Everything can be explained. That’s what Goodman said. Oh yes.”

“If all gathered at the table could hold hands,” Fenomina asked in a low purr, “I shall now attempt to commune with the damned. Darkness, please.”

As Portious walked softly around the room extinguishing the candles, Wilma, realizing she was a lot more frightened that she wanted to be, slid into a side recess so as to keep her back to a wall. “As my Academy textbook recommends,” she explained to Pickle. “It says, when in a tight spot, make sure you’ve got your back covered!” It WAS a tight space, but Pickle squeezed in with her and lay down with a paw over his eyes. The disquiet in the room was palpable. Wilma’s nerves were on a knife-edge. This was the most disconcerting event she had ever attended.

Fenomina began to call out, asking for any nearby spirits to show themselves with a sign, to explain their presence, then leave in peace, when something touched Wilma’s shoulder. She jumped and gave a small muffled cry as she twisted around to see who or what it was.

“Oh, thank goodness! Victor!” She heaved a sigh of relief. “I wondered where you were. I don’t mind telling you, I’m positively petrified! And you believe in ghosts. Unlike me. Of course. So you must be feeling beside yourself.”

Victor shrugged. “I’ve been hiding in this
alcove. It’s so dark no one’s noticed me. Was the diary useful?” he went on softly, taking the cap from his head and holding it in both hands.

Wilma’s eyes widened. “Yes!” she answered eagerly. “We think we’ve worked out where Bludsten’s gold mine might be! And if we find that, we might find the treasure! Although Mr. Goodman says we mustn’t get our hopes up. It’s what my Academy textbook calls a Proper Breakthrough. So thank you, Victor.” Wilma looked up and caught the eye of Janty, who was staring at her with a strange look on his face. She tapped Victor on the arm and nodded in his direction. “That’s Janty. He works for Barbu D’Anvers. He hasn’t got any friends. He’s probably jealous I’m talking to you.” Wilma smiled in a conciliatory fashion but was met with one of Janty’s dark scowls. “See what I mean? Anyway, I’m glad you and I are friends. You’re much nicer than that grumpy boots.”

Victor grinned shyly and reached into his pocket. “I’m glad we’re friends too. And I want to help you prove yourself to Mr. Goodman, like I am proving myself to Lord Blackheart.”

Wilma wrinkled her nose in puzzlement. But before she could ask more, Victor rushed on.

“I’ve got something else for you,” he said, handing Wilma a small, crumpled piece of paper. “I found it in the library. I think it fell out of Bludsten’s diary when you ran off.”

Wilma took the piece of paper, but in the dark she couldn’t quite make out what it was. By now Fenomina was asking the spirit world about the treasure. Her tone was becoming increasingly urgent. “Can’t see …” Wilma said, frowning as she peered at Victor’s paper. “They’ve blown out all the candles…Are they arrows in the corners…?”

A sudden wail sounded from the direction of the séance table. Wilma snapped her head upward and let Victor’s piece of paper fall into her pinafore pocket. Fenomina’s mouth was wide open, her one eye wild and rolling. As her head flopped from side to side, a distressing hissing noise began emanating from her. It was one of the most evil things Wilma had ever heard. She clasped a hand to her mouth to stop herself from screaming. The room bristled with fear. Molly had buried her
face in Polly’s shoulder, Mrs. Speckle was doubled over in fright, and poor Inspector Lemone, at his wits’ end, was actually in tears.

“So…cold.” Wilma shivered. The room had turned icy as if the devil himself had breathed through the Hoo. A smell of sulfur filled the air along with a chorus of soft, horrible moans. It was the creepiest thing Wilma had ever experienced. For a moment she thought she felt Victor’s own cold hand clutching hers reassuringly even as he whispered, “I told you ghosts were real.”

Then Mrs. Moggins, the cook, suddenly exclaimed and pointed toward the ceiling. “Look!” she shrieked, gesturing desperately. “Look up there!”

Wilma looked. She gasped, as did the rest of the room. Because there, above everybody’s heads, a strange floating golden claw had appeared from nowhere! And this time it was EXACTLY like the one in Bludsten’s diary. A chair standing by the window skidded sideways and fell over. Screams broke out. Mrs. Speckle’s tea tray was overturned, Inspector Lemone’s hat was knocked
from his head, and Pickle, in an alarming and unexpected turn, found himself cosmically booted into the air, where he did a full somersault and landed headfirst in a large bowl of nuts. The room was in chaos. Molly and Polly had both fainted, Portious was trying to hide behind the Brackle Bush, and Belinda was screeching as if her life depended on it.

Then a deep booming voice cut through the madness. “You shall not take that which is mine!” Wilma’s mouth fell open and a cold, clammy wave of fear coursed through her. “If you try,” it resonated on, “then REVENGE shall follow!” As the voice spoke, something began to solidify just over Fenomina’s shoulder. It was a disembodied head wearing a dark cowl. A pair of red malevolent eyes burned out from within it. It gave a wicked, foul hiss, briefly displaying a set of vile fangs. Everybody screamed.

“Oh my!” Wilma murmured, half in shock. “It’s actually true. There
are
ghosts at Blackheart Hoo! They
do
exist!” Instinctively, she turned to grab hold of Victor again, but he was gone. No
doubt he had fled in fear. And then, as quickly as the apparition had formed, it vanished.

Fenomina slumped forward. “Light!” she moaned. “We must have light!”

Portious hastily relit a few candles. Everyone looked shaken and white-faced, even Fenomina.

“Mr. Goodman,” Lady Blackheart wailed, fanning herself frantically, “perhaps you should call off your search for the missing treasure. Perhaps you should just leave and let Fenomina appease the spirits. I don’t know if my nerves can stand much more of this!”

“Nonsense!” retorted Lord Blackheart, pulling himself together and thumping his hand hard on the séance table. “The sooner we find it, the better. Once we have it, all this madness will stop. I am sure of it.”

“And the fact that he’s so cross,” shouted out Molly, clutching tightly to Polly, “proves the treasure must be MASSIVE.”

“This is getting better with every passing moment,” whispered Barbu, smirking.

As they all traipsed from the room, Wilma
skipped excitedly between a still trembling Inspector Lemone and her mentor. Now that she’d gotten over her extreme petrification, and rescued Pickle from the bowl of nuts, she was actually quite stirred up at the thought of becoming a ghost-hunting detective apprentice.

“Can you believe it, Mr. Goodman? There are ghosts after all—we’ve seen the proof needed with our own bare eyes!” she exclaimed. “So it is the Fatal Phantom causing havoc at the Hoo. All over its treasure. And Belinda probably IS possessed too.”

“On the contrary, Wilma,” replied Theodore forcibly. “I am more convinced than ever that ghosts and spirits are not real.” And he looked more serious than Wilma had EVER seen him before.

“But …” Wilma trailed off. She was aghast. They had just seen proper proof with their own eyes, and here was Mr. Goodman refusing to accept it.

If you’ve ever spent any time with grown-ups, you’ll have heard them talking about how their
bosses are total idiots and how if they were in charge instead of their bosses, then their workplaces would be a lot better, thanks very much. Well, at this precise moment, that was a little bit how Wilma felt. There had to be some explanation. Perhaps Mr. Goodman had that thing when you’re so cold you go a bit crazy. Surely he couldn’t be possessed as well? She didn’t know what to think. There was no criminal. There was a GHOST. Mr. Goodman MUST have taken leave of his senses. It was true he wasn’t used to getting things wrong, so could that be it…?

Wilma had to admit she didn’t like it herself, but it was time to face the truth. Ghosts existed—however improbable that sounded. And it was now quite clear. The only hope for all of them—including Mr. Goodman (imagine his embarrassment if it was found out he’d gotten it all wrong)—was her. Someone had to do something to stop the spooks taking over at the Hoo. However scary it might be. “Nothing and nobody stops Wilma Tenderfoot,” she whispered determinedly to Pickle. Besides, Victor would help
her—hadn’t he been trying to do so all along? HE believed in ghosts! Yes, apprentice detective she was, ghost hunter she would become. Because sometimes, if you want something done properly, you have to do it yourself.

A Fatal Phantom on the loose. Mr. Goodman gone crazy. Wilma up against it on her own. Surely this can’t get any worse? Surely?

T
he morning was cold and unforgiving. Nobody had slept well. In fact Pickle, convinced that a spook was going to appear at any moment, had spent the night sitting bolt upright and barking at every creak, squeak, and bump, much to everyone’s annoyance. Wilma and Pickle, Mr. Goodman and Inspector Lemone had been given a guest suite in the east wing of the Hoo, where there was a large four-poster bed with a set of bunks in an adjoining room. But after the terrors of the séance Inspector Lemone had insisted they all sleep in the same room,
meaning they had been squashed toe to tail in the four-poster all night.

“I’m really tired.” Wilma yawned as she pulled on her duffel coat and helped Pickle into his. “Still, no time for snoozing. We’ve got to get ready for the trek to Drop Dead Gorge.” Trotting from the bedroom, she slid down the banister of the grand staircase and hopped across the marble floor of the hall, Pickle fast behind her. She had to find Portious and ask to borrow skis for them all.

Last time Wilma had been sent to find the butler, he’d been in the servants’ quarters tending to his vegetable seedlings. If she remembered correctly, she needed to head toward the house kitchens. By now she had run past the dining room and the downstairs sitting room, scampered through a sun lounge, a study, and a washroom, and opened a door only to discover it was a broom closet. “I think I’ve gone the wrong way, Pickle,” she admitted at last. “I think I should have turned left at the billiard room. Let’s go back.” But as Wilma turned, she stopped in her tracks.
There, coming out of a room and walking away from them up a corridor, was Belinda Blackheart.

Wilma raised a finger to her lips. “I know officially I’m supposed to be fetching skis, but unofficially we have got our own ghost investigation to think about. I was pondering on it in bed last night. I think I just need to
prove
to Mr. Goodman, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that it’s ghosts up to no good. I’ll have to find spooky clues and things. They have to be proper clues, though. It’s my real chance to show him that I’ve worked something out correctly, all by myself. And we need a plan of action. That’s like a list that reminds you what to do. So if we were making a plan of action for you, Pickle, it would go: scratch ear, sniff sock, snaffle crumbs.” Pickle stood, rapt. That was a heck of a plan and he
liked
it! “So we have to do that, but for spooks. We probably won’t find the treasure-guarding Fatal Phantom until we find the treasure, though we should keep our eyes peeled. But according to Fenomina, Bludsten Blackheart’s troubled spirit is IN Belinda, so she might be a good place to start. It’s sort of like Top Tip for Detecting
number three—keep a sharp lookout for suspects and sometimes creep around after them—only this is a possession rather than a suspicion.”