Wilma Tenderfoot: The Case of the Fatal Phantom (6 page)

“You’re going to play them at cards?” asked the boy.

“Oh, not just play, Janty. Win. By which I mean cheat, obviously.”

“Obviously.” Tully nodded. “It’s good to see you back to your old self, Mr. Barbu.”

“Don’t ever let me get depressed again,” declared the villain, throwing his gray cap into a bowl of greasy washing-up water. “The time has come. Barbu D’Anvers is BACK!”

Yes. You’re right. It is a cause for worry. Let all the people quake.

W
ilma was still in the library waiting for Mr. Goodman, with Pickle back at her side. The mummified body of Bludsten Blackheart had been carried carefully to the kitchen, where Theodore and Lemone were helping the scientists wrap it in wet bandages to protect it before being taken to the lab. The key that had been clutched in its hand had been carefully removed and given to Dr. Flatelly for further analysis in the hope that, if there was a treasure to be found, he might be able to uncover something in his papers that would match the key to the treasure’s location.
Wilma had given herself an apprenticely job to do to pass the time while waiting: She was scanning the Blackhearts’ books for any further information on Bludsten or anything about ghouls, spooks, and other paranormal hoo-ha. But where to start?

Wilma looked around her. The library was shrouded in gloom. Dark mahogany shelves ran from floor to ceiling, packed with old books and dusty manuscripts. Ladders on rollers stood resting against the pillars at intervals between each set of shelves. Behind the velvet chair where the mummy had sat, there was a large globe in a wooden frame. Wilma gave it a spin. It was entirely blue apart from one tiny bow-shaped island three-quarters of the way up one side. Wilma stopped the globe with her hand and pointed toward the tiny land mass. “Look,” she said to Pickle, smiling. “Cooper Island.”

“That globe was made specially for the Blackhearts,” said a small voice just over Wilma’s shoulder. She spun around, momentarily startled. Standing before her was a very thin boy, his
cheeks and eye sockets slightly hollowed. He was wearing a pair of knee-length shorts tied about his waist with a belt made of string and both his shirt and jacket, Wilma noticed, were tatty and threadbare. In short, he had the look of someone not quite looked after. All the same, his eyes were kind and he was smiling. “I saw you yesterday,” he said quietly, “at the excavation site. My name is Victor. I’m the Blackhearts’ stable lad.”

“The boy I saw in the snow!” Wilma exclaimed, beaming. “I wondered where you had got to! Stable lad? So what were you doing at the excavation site that evening—just keeping an eye on things for the Blackhearts?”

Victor nodded. “I often like to visit the library at night,” he added. “I never went to school, so I come here to read and teach myself. I can help you if you like. I know my way around the shelves.”

“Thank you.” Wilma smiled. “There are so many books, it would take forever to check every single one of them. How rude! I haven’t told you my name! I’m Wilma Tenderfoot, apprentice
detective. And this is my dog, Pickle,” she added, looking down. “Oh. Where is he?” Pickle was hiding underneath the velvet chair, shaking slightly. “It’s all right,” she said, beckoning to her quivering hound. “They’ve taken the mummy away! He’ll be fine in a moment. I think he’s a bit spooked. Anyway!” Stepping forward, she grabbed Victor by the hand and shook it vigorously. “I work for Theodore P. Goodman,” she said. “He’s a very serious and famous detective. Here’s my badge.” Wilma stuck her thumb behind the shiny silver badge on her pinafore and thrust it forward for Victor to see. “I was hoping to find out stuff about Bludsten Blackheart. But I think I should also be reading up on ghosts and other weird hoo-ha, because if there
is
a haunting, then it’s best to be prepared.”

Victor smiled and wandered over to one of the tall stacks of books. “Well, there’s this,” he said, climbing the nearest stack ladder and pulling out a large blue book. “This is
Mummies and What to Do if You Find One
. It’s got some excellent illustrations.” He climbed back down to
Wilma’s side. “Look. It’s a mummy strangling a hot-chestnut seller. And look at that one. He’s bitten that lady’s head off.”

“Dear me,” mumbled Wilma, shaking her head a little as she took the book. “That’s terribly bad manners. Oh crumbs,” she added, having flicked to the front. “‘Chapter One: Whatever you do, don’t dig up a mummy unless you absolutely have to. Not unless you want to endure a painful and dreadful death.’ Hmm. Well, that’s mistake number one. Although the mummy in the book is all covered in bandages. Bludsten was turned mummy by the vinegary soil. I wonder if that makes him even MORE evil.”

“Perhaps you could just bury him again,” suggested Victor, his eyes twinkling in the candlelight. “That might reverse the curse or something.”

“I’m not sure,” said Wilma, frowning as she read on. “Oh no! This could get even worse. There’s a bit further on about how mummies hang out with zombies and vampires. Blimey! Better keep our eyes peeled. They might turn up and be all rotten and blood-suckery.”

Victor had no reply to this. Instead, he touched Wilma lightly on the arm and said, “There’s a book I think you should see. It’s tucked away. I’m sure it’ll be useful.”

At the other end of the library, Victor led Wilma to an alcove where there was a small, decrepit bookcase with a wire mesh door. On the shelves were hundreds of leather-bound notepads. There was a lot of dust and the paper inside the pads was fragile and crumbling. “Here.” Victor gestured, pulling out one of the most ancient-looking notebooks. It was a dark red and the leather was torn and weathered. He handed it to Wilma.

“What is it?” she asked, afraid to open it in case it fell apart in her hands.

“The diary of Bludsten Blackheart,” whispered Victor, his soft blue eyes blazing.

Wilma’s mouth fell open with a small gasp. “Oh my,” she declared. “Well! I’ll certainly find out plenty about Bludsten from that!”

Taking the notebook to a round reading table to her left, Wilma sat down and opened it. On the inside cover, there was a picture of a raised
claw made of gold. “Look at that.” Wilma trembled. “Do you think it’s the treasure that Bludsten hid?”

“It might be,” whispered Victor, peering over her shoulder.

“This diary is amazing, Victor,” enthused Wilma, wide-eyed. “Look at all the pictures. This looks like a series of designs for the claw thing. It says it’s made from ten thousand gold nuggets. That must make it very valuable. And what’s this,” she said, turning the pages. “It looks like sketches of some funny rocks …”

Before they could look any further, a piercing scream rang through the house. Pickle, still under the velvet chair, barked a few times and then ran out toward the library door. Wilma, carefully placing the diary into her pinafore pocket, jumped up to run after him. “Come on, Victor,” she called over her shoulder. “Something’s happened! We’d better go and check it out!”

“I can’t,” he said, retreating into the shadows. “I’m not supposed to be in the house. I’ll get into trouble.”

“I’ll have to go,” Wilma explained, still backing toward the library door. “My textbook says that when in the vicinity of screams, apprentice detectives need to get their skates on.” She raised a hand as Victor disappeared into the gloom of the library. There must be another exit straight into the grounds back there, Wilma thought to herself as she dashed after Pickle. She had read about how Big Houses are filled with secret doors and passageways.

How nice it was though, to have made a friend her own age. And in many ways, Victor seemed to have had a similar start in life to her. Only, Mr. Goodman had found her. Perhaps she could introduce him to Mr. Goodman. Victor seemed to like cases and conundrums, and he was good at finding things. Perhaps he could be Inspector Lemone’s apprentice. Yes, that was a good idea. But first things first. There were screams to deal with.

Wilma and Pickle scampered into the hallway. Ahead of them they could see a small group gathered. Inspector Lemone was bending down,
tending to Polly, one of the housemaids, who had clearly suffered some sort of collapse.

“What is it?” Wilma panted as she ran toward Mr. Goodman. “What’s happened?” But her mentor said nothing. Wilma followed his gaze toward the wall before them. Scrawled on it, in what looked like fresh blood, was a large raised claw and beneath it the dripping words “So it begins.” Wilma took a sharp breath. Pickle didn’t like this, not one bit. And so he whimpered a little, just to register his feelings on the matter.

Absolutely terrifying.

T
arquin Blackheart had heard enough. The house had been thrown into something of an uproar since the news that a ghoul might have been unleashed on it and, not wanting to be stuck fanning his constantly fainting sister, he had sneaked out and taken a carriage into the center of Coop, the island’s main town, despite the snow. Young men from well-to-do families can go one of two ways: They can devote themselves to a life of charitable works saving donkeys or, as in Tarquin’s case, they can laze about being of no use to anybody. But despite the fact
that he was a Blackheart, Tarquin had very little money. In fact, the Blackheart fortune, once impressive and considerable, had been frittered away over the years to virtually nothing. If Tarquin was going to continue to live in the manner to which the Blackhearts had been accustomed, he was certainly not going to be able to rely on his inheritance.

The other setback for Tarquin was that he was profoundly stupid. You will often hear it said that fancy people talk “as if they’ve got marbles in their mouth.” This is because they often
have
got marbles in their mouth. They can’t help it. Some of them are just foolish. Tarquin was especially so.

Dressed in a purple velvet tailcoat, long silk scarf, and top hat set at a jaunty angle, Tarquin leaped from his carriage. “You there! Valet!” he shouted, tossing the carriage reins to a pimply youth. “Park my carriage, would you? And don’t scratch it, there’s a good fellow.” He had driven to the Plumbus Club, a gaming establishment for young men with more money than sense, and given that Tarquin had very little money, this was even more senseless.

The Plumbus Club was a grand affair. A set of deep red heavy curtains acted as a doorway into a round entrance hall where a string quartet played in front of a huge fountain in the shape of tumbling dice. The air was filled with musky cigar smoke that wafted out from the gaming rooms. As Tarquin entered he was approached by a well-dressed man with greased-back hair. “Master Blackheart,” he began, extending a hand. “So good to see you again. May I take your hat?”

“Thank you, Carter,” replied Tarquin, tossing the man his top hat and scarf. “What tables are fun tonight? I want to see some action. Everything is so gloomy at the Hoo. I demand froth and bubbles!”

“The Lantha room is rather quiet this evening,” replied Carter, the club’s manager, referring to Cooper’s national board game. “And there’s not much happening in the Jickjack arena. But there is a rather enticing game of Descendo Supter unfolding in the games room to your left, sir. There’s a gentleman doing very well, I believe.”

“Is that so?” Tarquin grinned, loosening his tie a little. “Then perhaps it’s time for me to reverse
his fortunes. Bring me a hundred grogs’ worth of counters and a decanter of Squifty Juice. Oh, and Carter …”

“Yes, sir?”

“If my father sends Portious looking for me …”

“I haven’t seen you, sir,” replied Carter with a discreet bow.

Supter, for those of you who have never played, is a card game of cunning and bluff. Players have three cards and must play each individually, starting with their highest and ending with their lowest. The trick is to make your opponent believe that you have a lower card than they do, and then bet accordingly until you either bluff your opponent into folding or win with the lowest hand. Normal packs of cards are made up of four suits—hearts, diamonds, spades, and clubs, but on Cooper, packs of cards are completely different. Instead of numbers the cards are animal-based, with suits comprising birds, mammals, fish, and insects. In Supter, the smaller the creature on the card, the lower the value, so
a good card would be the gnat of insects or, best of all, the plankton of fish, whereas the elephant of mammals or the eagle of birds would be the very worst cards to be dealt. Most games of Supter are played with Descendo Rules—playing highest to lowest with one given suit—but a more dangerous and more thrilling version is Chance Supter, where any card from any suit can be played at any time.

The Supter gaming room was octagonal in shape with black walls and low, brooding lighting. In the center of the room stood a traditional Supter table, triangular and covered in blue baize. At one corner sat an anxious, sweaty-looking young man with a very small pile of counters before him and opposite, at the table’s far end, was a small but well-dressed dark-eyed gentleman flanked by a larger, thuggish-looking man. Between them was the dealer, a very boyish-looking man with curly hair and a rather fake-seeming mustache. The more anxious of the two players was taking a look at his last card. His hands were shaking. “Twenty counters!” he exclaimed
desperately, pushing all he had into the center of the table.

The well-dressed fellow pursed his lips and let his head fall to one side. “I think you’re bluffing,” he sneered. “No one with the gnat would let their shaking hands give them away. I call.” He tossed a matching number of counters into the pot. The young man’s head fell into his chest.

“You have read me again,” he sighed, turning over his last card. “But I do have the stag beetle,” he added hopefully.

The smartly dressed man smirked and turned his own card over. “The ant. I win once more.”

The young man pushed back his chair and stood up shakily. “I…I have lost everything.”

“In that case, go away,” snapped the diminutive gambler, gathering up his counters. “And don’t come back until you’ve got more to lose. Right. How much is that now?”

“Two thousand groggles, Mr. D’Anvers,” answered the curly-haired dealer, taking the cards and giving them another shuffle.