Wilma Tenderfoot and the Case of the Frozen Hearts (19 page)

As Madam Skratch turned to get back into the buggy, Pickle bounced forward and put his paws on the side plate to jump up next to Wilma. “Get down!” yelled Madam Skratch, giving him a kick with her boot. “Filthy creature!”

“But that's my dog!” cried Wilma, whose face was now streaming with tears. “Please let me take my dog!”

“No dogs allowed!” hissed the cruel matron with a sneer. “As you well know. Thank you, driver! Return us to the Institute immediately!”

“This is monstrous!” cried out Inspector Lemone, whose cheeks had turned a livid scarlet. “You can't treat a child like a spare wheel!”

As the buggy turned about and the driver raised his whip to speed off, Theodore P. Goodman leaped forward and pressed something into Wilma's hand. “The Case of the Broken Spindle, Wilma,” he urged, eyes wide and earnest. “Don't forget! Just push it through! Push it through!”

“What?” said Wilma, gulping back tears.

But it was too late for Theodore to answer. With a loud and agitated whinny, the horses galloped off and Wilma could only watch in desperation as her three friends along with all her detective hopes and her dreams of finding her own family disappeared into the distance just as she was starting to get somewhere. Wiping at her eyes, she opened her hand to see what her hero had given her. In her palm there was a piece of string, a safety pin, and a matchstick. “Push it through?” she mumbled. “Push what through where?”

T
he Lowside Institute for Woeful Children was even more grim and desolate than Wilma remembered. Shrouded in a mist, its skinny turrets piercing the gloom, the Institute looked foreboding and joyless. Wilma felt the cold chill of misery engulf her. Before she had left the Institute she had managed to accept her lot and plod along happily enough, but now that she had had a proper opportunity to pursue detecting and, more importantly, had felt the warmth that friendship could offer, her return was as desperate an experience as she could recollect.

“Come with me, Tenderfoot,” growled Madam Skratch as the buggy drew up in front of the Institute's entrance. Taking Wilma by her collar, Madam Skratch marched through the dark and hostile corridors, the only noise the sound of the matron's boot heels clipping the stone floors as they went, the only decoration an enormous tapestry of the Institute's motto: “Things might get better, but they probably won't,” which, to be honest, had never instilled anyone with much confidence, but then it was an establishment for Woeful Children and, as such, there was little point in raising anyone's expectations.

Wilma had assumed she would go to the dormitory and so was shocked and a little alarmed to discover that she was being taken down into the Institute's basement. The air smelled damp and dirty and as she was shoved past the laundry room she stumbled over heaps of moldy socks and rancid pants. At the end of the narrow corridor there was a heavy metal door that sat unevenly on the stone floor beneath it. A large iron key was in its lock. Madam Skratch heaved the door open and waved the key in Wilma's face. “You will stay in here until I decide otherwise,” she barked, pushing Wilma into the cell-like room. “You can use your time to contemplate your useless existence.” And with that, the door was slammed shut and all Wilma was left with was the sound of a key turning and sharp footsteps clicking away into the distance.

Well. This was a fine mess. A stolen stone and four murders to solve and here was Wilma stuck in a stinking room with no hope of being any help to anyone. She looked around. There was a small window in the wall to her left, which, if she stood on the tips of her toes, she could just see out of. She stared across the Institute's front yard toward a scrub of trees just beyond the high iron fence. A wind was blowing and the treetops were swaying in the moonlight. Wilma pushed at the window, but it was stuck tight. If there was a way out, that wasn't it. Dropping back down to the floor, Wilma headed for the meager bed in the corner of the room and sat down heavily on it with her face cradled in her cupped hands. “Ouch!” she said, reaching underneath her pinafore and pulling out a long, hard length of straw that was poking up painfully from the mattress. She threw it onto the floor and heaved a sigh. She had been so close to achieving her dream. She felt certain that, with Mrs. Waldock gone, it would only have been a matter of time before the detective had asked her to be his apprentice. And with the proper training she would have been closer than ever to discovering the truth behind her past. But Madam Skratch had ruined all that. Wilma hadn't done enough. Theodore P. Goodman had let her go.

Outside, the wind was picking up, and as Wilma kicked at the stony floor with frustration she could hear the soft howling of it in the trees. She looked sadly at her worn luggage tag and creased Clue Board. She sighed again. “Pickle . . .” she whispered with longing, but the thought of her best friend was too much to bear and Wilma laid her head into the crook of her elbow and at last gave way to tears. Then, having resigned herself to life back at the Institute, she drifted into a miserable sleep.

As Wilma lay sleeping, the howls of the wind seemed to rise in step with her own melancholic dreams, but then there began to be something familiar about the sound, something more tangible than just wind whipping through the treetops. Wilma forced herself awake to see the first light of dawn streaming in through the window. She rubbed her eyes roughly with the back of her pinafore and sat up so as to listen better. There it was again, a deeper sound that she couldn't quite place. It stopped, and for a moment Wilma thought she'd imagined it. But then it came again! A baying yowl that cut through the wind! She knew that noise! Wilma rushed to the window and pulled herself upward. “Pickle!” she shouted, half laughing, half crying. And there he was, sitting obediently just beyond the iron fence calling out for Wilma. She couldn't believe her eyes. “He must have run all the way!” she spluttered.

Wilma banged on the window with her fist. “Pickle! I'm here!” The beagle's head was stretched upward in mid-howl, but as he heard his name his ears pricked and his head snapped suddenly in the direction of the low window in the wall ahead of him. Wilma banged again on the windowpane and waved her hand wildly. Pickle let out an excited yelp, spun on the spot, and gave three barks for good measure. Wilma laughed. Seeing her loyal beagle filled her with determination. Somehow she had to escape. Theodore P. Goodman would never give up and neither would she! But how could she get out?

She turned away from the window and stuck both her hands into the front of her pinafore. And then she felt them, the matchstick, string, and safety pin that Detective Goodman had given her. How could she have forgotten? Pulling them out of her pocket she stared down at the objects in her hand. What was it he had said to her? “Push it through, Wilma,” she muttered to herself, a small frown spreading across her forehead. “And what was the other thing? Something about a case? The Case of the Broken Spindle? Wait a minute!” she suddenly declared, eyes widening. “It's on my Clue Ring!”

Grabbing for the bundle of clippings on her belt, she fell to her knees and flicked through, opening every piece of paper that she had. “Here it is!” she squealed as she unfolded a particularly old clipping. “The Case of the Broken Spindle!” she read, scanning the page as fast as she could. “Locked in a room . . . seemed impossible . . . all he had was a matchstick, a piece of string, and a safety pin!” Wilma grabbed the three items and ran to the locked door. “He used the matchstick to push the key so it fell to the floor on the other side! He's telling me to escape!”

Her hand shaking with excitement, Wilma poked the matchstick into the keyhole. “Oh no,” she said, crestfallen. “It's too short! Now what am I going to do? I need something longer!” Wilma spun around, her eyes searching wildly. “The straw!” she yelled, dashing forward to pick up the particularly tough bit of straw that had made her bed so uncomfortable earlier. Running back to the keyhole, she pushed the stalk of the straw inward until she could feel it come up against the key. Slowly and firmly she applied pressure, wiggling the straw a little until, with one tiny click, she heard the key settle itself free. Holding her end of the straw, Wilma gave a sharp shove and to her relief she felt the key shoot out of the keyhole and fall to the floor outside her cell. It had worked! Wilma got down on her hands and knees and peered through the gap. She could see the key! But how could she get it? Quickly she looked back at the newspaper clipping. “He tied a safety pin to a piece of string, opened the safety pin, and then, throwing it under the door, used it as a hook to pull the key toward him! Brilliant! It's brilliant!” Wilma followed the instructions to the letter and flicked the homemade fishing rod through the gap under the door. Sliding the string sideways, she positioned the safety pin and slowly, very slowly, pulled it toward the key. It took a few tries but finally, at the fifth attempt, the sharp end of the safety pin caught itself under the key. Carefully Wilma drew in the string. The key was moving toward her! It was working! One more tug and the key was in the gap under the door. Wilma reached with her fingers and the key was hers!

She stood up, triumphant. “I'm coming, Pickle!” she shouted. “Nobody and nothing stops Wilma Tenderfoot!” And as she unlocked the door and ran off down the dark, dank corridor, there was no reason to believe otherwise.

“
I
nspector!” shouted Theodore, waving at his portly friend, who was sweating as he paced toward him. “As fast as you can! We're late for the Curator! Then we need to get on and visit that Cynta tree—look for further clues. Did you find anything?”

“Certainly did,” puffed Inspector Lemone, handing the world-famous detective a file as they walked. “It seems that in her younger years Mrs. Waldock used to be an illusionist's glamorous assistant at Grimbles Circus. Even better, the owner's still alive—we're tracking her down to ask her more about Mrs. Waldock's possible fella.”

“Interesting,” said Goodman, eyebrows raised. “Good work, Lemone!”

“I say, Goodman,” panted the Inspector as he trotted to keep up, “couldn't we just have sent the Curator a note? Did we really need to come to the Museum? I've barely finished my breakfast.”

“Meetings are not just for the client's benefit, Lemone!” Theodore declared, reaching to open the door in front of them. “Aah, Mr. Curator and Miss Pagne!” He beamed. “Sorry we're a little late. The Inspector was running an errand for me.”

“That girl's not with you?” asked Miss Pagne, arching to see over the detective's shoulder. She was sitting at a small desk where she was playing a game of Patience with great finesse. Her hair was loose about her shoulders and she was wearing an orange fitted jacket with an elaborate diamond snake pin running through the lapel.

“No,” replied Theodore, shaking his head. “I'm afraid she was taken back to the Institute last night—what with her mistress having been killed.”

“Seems a terrible shame,” muttered the Curator, placing his cane into a side cupboard.

“That's an interesting pair of scissors,” commented Inspector Lemone, pointing toward Miss Pagne's desk suddenly. “They for something special?”

“They're specialist trimming shears,” answered Miss Pagne, pushing a dark curl out of her eyes. “For bonsai trees. I have a weakness for them—as you can see.”

The glamorous assistant gestured with a painted fingernail to a group of three plinths behind the Inspector. On top of each was a miniature, intricately pruned tree. Miss Pagne slunk over to the one nearest her and made a small snip, sending a little wayward branch tumbling to the floor.

“Keen on plants, are you?” asked the Inspector as he watched it fall.

Miss Pagne shrugged elegantly. “I'm interested in all beautiful things, Inspector. Like you, Mr. Goodman,” she added, looking at Theodore through lowered lashes. “You enjoy the finer things in life, I'm sure.” The detective met her gaze and held it.

“That will do, Miss Pagne,” grumbled the Curator.

The Inspector's eyes narrowed. “I say, ever seen a Cynta tree?”

Miss Pagne turned her head away and moved to the second bonsai. “I have heard of it, of course. But I've never seen one.”

“Cynta tree?” coughed the Curator. “Why? What's that?”

“Well . . .” began the Inspector, clearing his throat a little.

But Theodore interrupted him. “That's not actually why we're here.” The great detective reached into the depths of his overcoat and pulled out the battered order book. “It belonged to the forger,” he explained, handing it to the Curator. “All his orders are listed. And his clients. But it is in code.”

“Have you managed to crack it?” said the Curator, thumbing quickly through the book's pages.

“Not yet, no,” answered Theodore.

“How did you get it?” asked the Curator.

“Wilma stole it right from Barbu D'Anvers himself,” puffed Inspector Lemone.

“If I was him, I'd probably want her dead,” mused Miss Pagne, looking sideways at the order book.

“But she's safely locked up at the Institute now,” added the Curator, “so I don't expect she'll be causing any more trouble.”

“Oh, don't count on it!” Inspector Lemone beamed. “Theodore's given her everything she needs to escape! That girl is so determined, she'll get out and probably have the villain before we do! Ha ha!” He narrowed his eyes deliberately in Miss Pagne's direction as he spoke.

Theodore's jaw tightened and he put a hand on his friend's arm to stop him. “That's enough, Inspector,” he said in a near whisper. “I'm sure the Curator isn't interested in a ten-year-old girl.”