Wilma Tenderfoot and the Case of the Frozen Hearts (20 page)

“Yes, well,” said the Curator, standing at his desk. “I have things to attend to. Let me know when you get somewhere with that book, won't you, Goodman? Miss Pagne, I wonder if you could run this note over to the Ministry?”

“No need for a note,” answered Miss Pagne, taking the letter. “I'll send a telegram. Always quicker.” Pulling on a large dark shawl, she turned and nodded in the detective's direction. “Mr. Goodman, always a pleasure.” And with that she slipped away.

“I say, Goodman,” mumbled the Inspector, giving his friend a nudge, “you don't think that—”

“Not now, Inspector, the Curator wants to get on,” said Theodore with some urgency. “And so do we. Mr. Curator, thank you for seeing us.”

“But . . .” spluttered the Inspector as he was bundled out of the room. Theodore closed the door behind them and raised a finger to his lips. “Don't you think it was suspicious though?” the Inspector went on, donning his hat and following the detective as he strode away down the corridor. “Miss Pagne knowing about trees and telegrams? Red nails. Seemed quite rattled too.”

“Things are starting to come together,” said Theodore, stabbing a finger into the air. “Do you still have Mrs. Waldock's lavender?”

“Got it in my pocket, Goodman,” said the Inspector, reaching to pull it out. “Bagged up obviously. Proper procedure and all that. Haven't had a chance to send it to the lab yet.”

But the detective had his notebook out and was scribbling fiercely. He didn't look up as Lemone lifted the bag to his face. “Still. Odd that she was killed. Can't see what she had to do with the case,” the Inspector went on. “Love the smell of lavender,” he added absentmindedly and, pulling the top of the bag open, he took one deep sniff.

Theodore, who had his back to the Inspector, was now twiddling his mustache in his fingers, lost in thought. “Hmmm,” he pondered, “it is odd that Mrs. Waldock was added to the chain of victims. All her death has succeeded in doing is sending Wilma back to the Institute. Unless . . .” His eyes widened. “I have a terrible feeling,” he said in his most serious tone to date, “that Wilma is in grave danger.”

“Wilma . . .” answered Inspector Lemone in a lazy, slurred voice, “danger . . . I . . .”

Theodore turned around sharply just as his friend, eyes rolling to the back of his head, slumped to the floor. The detective heaved Lemone into his arms. Taking the opened lavender bag from the Inspector's hand, Theodore raised it cautiously to his nose, but flinched and threw it down again almost immediately. “As I thought,” he muttered. “Chloroform! The killer used lavender infused with chloroform to drug the victims before killing them!” Above his head, on a table, there was a small vase with some flowers in it. Theodore reached up and, taking the flowers out, threw the water into Inspector Lemone's face.

“What the . . . ?” spluttered the Inspector, coming around. “I say . . . no need for . . . What were you saying about Wilma?”

“She's in the gravest danger, Inspector. We haven't a moment to lose.”

“But she's at that wretched Institute,” said Lemone, stumbling to his feet.

“By now she may not be,” answered Theodore, racing to the door. “I should never have given her the means to escape! We have to find her. And hope that
we
get to her first.”

The Inspector blinked. “Then wait for me, Goodman!” he shouted. And for the first time in ten years, he ran as quickly as his legs would carry him.

W
ilma was heading for the kitchen. If she could get through there unseen, then she could leave by the small side door that led out to the trash cans at the back of the Institute. From there she could climb over the scraps heap, onto the brick wall that rounded the enclosure, and hop from there onto the potato patch that led, in turn, to the gap in the iron fence through which, if she held her breath and hoped for the best, she could squeeze and escape.

It was just before lunch, when everyone at the Institute would be in the Pit, carrying lumps of coal for no discernible reason, but all the same she needed to be careful. Wilma eased the kitchen door open and crept through, mindful not to make a sound. Halfway through, she heard a click of heels behind her. Every muscle in Wilma's body stiffened. Madam Skratch was in the pantry. There was nowhere to hide. What was Wilma going to do?

 

Madam Skratch had decided that she was going to have more onions than usual in her pudding that lunchtime, mostly because she was scheduled to punish a nine-year-old boy named Franklin Muslette that afternoon and she wanted to breathe on him in an odious manner. As she piled the sliced onions on top of her trifle she suddenly stopped, looked up, and frowned. Had she heard something? Was someone in the kitchen? She put down the knife and popped her head out of the pantry door. “Is anybody here?” she barked, scanning the room. No answer. Madam Skratch's eyes tightened into slits. She had heard something, and if there was one thing she was sure of, it was that Woeful Children liked to steal food. Very slowly she bent down and looked under the butcher's block. Nothing. “There's a child in here,” she announced loudly. “I can sense it. So it would be better for you if you came out now. Or there will be serious consequences!”

A heavy silence filled the room. Madam Skratch pursed her lips, her eyes darting left and right for the slightest sign of movement. And then she saw it. Over in the corner, by the barrel of sundried Brussels sprouts, were the hooks where the chefs hung their aprons. One apron looked peculiarly lumpy. “Aha,” whispered the mean-spirited matron. “Now I have you.” Treading quietly, she tiptoed, skinny hand outstretched, and then, when it was within her grasp, she reached forward and snatched the apron off its hook! The mop that was leaning inside fell to the floor. Madam Skratch stared at it, a little disappointed. Then, taking one last look about her, she returned to the pantry, where she took a large, greedy spoonful of her onion-packed trifle.

The apron to the left of the one Madam Skratch had snatched twitched and rustled into life. Wilma, who had been holding her breath in terror lest she be caught, heaved a sigh of relief and quickly slipped from her hiding place and out the back door. Clambering over the heap of vegetable peelings and scraps of unwanted gristle, she pulled herself up onto the wall that divided the kitchen quarters from the potato patch and jumped down. Not daring to look back, she sprinted through the plants, leaves whipping at her knees, to the place in the iron fence where she knew there was the slimmest of gaps. Pickle, who had seen her running across the garden, had scampered to meet her and was letting out small, excited yelps. Wilma squeezed herself through with a wriggle and Pickle, beside himself with joy, leaped into her arms and licked her face with enthusiasm.

“Yuck!” laughed Wilma, wiping the dog slobber from her cheeks. “I'm happy to see you too! But we can't stay here. It's too dangerous. We've got to find Mr. Goodman. Let's try and work out where he'll be.” Wilma reached into her pinafore pocket and pulled out her crumpled Clue Board. “So it started with the stone in the vault. Then Alan Katzin and his aunt were killed. Then the stone dissolved in the box. (That was the fake one. We know that. The real one was swapped using some kind of magic hands.) Then the man who made the fake was also killed. By a dart that you found, Pickle. Well done. But then you ate it. Not so well done for that. Anyway, the dart came from the air vent, which I think is important. Then I got the order book, which was a load of anagrams. Then Mrs. Waldock was killed. And there was the poster. In the costume trunk. And there was lavender. And the fish scale. And the fingernail. And loads of hearts being frozen. We mustn't forget that.”

Wilma stopped and gave a sigh of concentration. Tapping the pencil against her lips, she stared at the pictures she had drawn. Pickle lifted up his paw and put it on the updated Clue Board. “The air vent?” asked Wilma. “Is that what you're pointing at?” Pickle flapped his ears. “I think you're right. It's a large clue that hasn't been investigated. And Mr. Goodman did say that if he could work out who killed Visser, then the case would be solved! That's it! I bet they've gone there! And even if they haven't—we should! That way we can help Mr. Goodman make his final deductions! I know he said I shouldn't rush about searching for clues and following him, but I don't work for Mrs. Waldock anymore, and if I find the clue that helps Mr. Goodman finally solve the case, then he absolutely, positively will have to have me as his apprentice! And although he said the air vent might not be that helpful a clue, that's probably just because he and the Inspector are too big to climb through it—that's probably why he wanted me to escape, so I could check it out. There's a cart that leaves the Institute just after lunch to take letters and packages, so if we creep onto the back of that we'll be able to get there even faster. Oh, Pickle!” she added, throwing her arms around the tatty-eared beagle. “I love you so much!”

But as the plucky pair jumped onto the backboard of the postal cart and crawled under the tarpaulin, they had no way of knowing that they were closer to Theodore than they thought. Because the detective and a very sweaty Inspector Lemone were coming the other way on their tandem. And as Theodore banged on the front door of the Institute, Wilma and Pickle were being driven toward nothing but a very untimely end.

 

Oh dear. Don't stop reading now. It's about to get worse.

“
T
here's no one here,” whispered Wilma, poking her head into Visser's workshop late that afternoon. “Be careful, Pickle, there are things broken everywhere.”

Wilma picked her way across the room through the debris to the air vent. Climbing onto a stool and reaching with one hand, she slid the cover up and peered into the pitch-black tube. “I need to be able to see,” she called down to Pickle. “Can you find a candle or anything?”

Pickle looked around the room. The floor was covered with the scattered contents of drawers and boxes. With his nose to the floor he got busy, found something, picked it up, and trotted back to Wilma. “No,” said Wilma, “that's a sock, Pickle. Socks don't really work as torches. Hang on. I'll come down and help.”

Jumping off the stool, Wilma got to her hands and knees and rummaged through the rubbish on the floor. “People always keep candles in drawers,” she explained to Pickle, who now had the stinking sock between his front paws and was chewing it. “In case of emergencies. And this is an emergency, so we just need to find one. Aha!” Triumphant, Wilma held up a stubby half-candle. “I've still got the matchstick Mr. Goodman gave me,” Wilma added, reaching into her pinafore pocket. There was a rough edge on the tippedover workbench to her right. She struck the matchstick against it and it fizzed into life. With the candle lit, she waded her way back over to the air vent.

“Pickle,” she said, turning to look at her beagle, “you can't come with me. It's too tricky for dogs. So I'm going to write a note and you're going to take it to Mr. Goodman. He'll want to meet me and do some deducting. You know, when I'm back with loads of clues.” Wilma scribbled as she spoke, tore the page from her notebook, and bent down to stuff the note under Pickle's collar. “There. Go find Mr. Goodman, Pickle! Take him the note!”

The call of destiny comes eventually to all small hounds with a noble heart, and as Pickle heard and understood the great detective's name and saw his beloved friend going into battle alone, he knew he had to run as fast as his four legs would carry him. So that's exactly what he did.

As Pickle disappeared through the door, Wilma pulled herself up and wriggled into the vent. “Whoever killed Visser,” she panted, “must have crawled down here to use the blow dart. So to find out who it was, all I have to do is follow the vent and find where it starts. This probably covers creeping after suspects, clue gathering, AND being circuitous. Brilliant. I'm also behaving very seriously as well—top tip number nine. Mr. Goodman will be pleased.”

The vent bent left and right and dipped downward until it reached what looked like a blackened dead end, but as Wilma edged closer she realized that it turned upward once more. Metal rungs were set into the bricks and with a bit of tricky negotiating Wilma was able to wiggle her way into a long, vertical shaft. The climb upward was hard work, and the metal rungs were slimy with mold and lichen. Every now and again the light from the candle would pick out strange slug-like creatures that slithered in front of her, but Wilma, determined not to scream or cry, because a proper, serious detective would never do that, stared only upward and climbed on.

Wilma couldn't see much beyond the end of her candle, so when her head banged against what appeared to be a metal lid it was something of a surprise. Heaving the cover upward, she pulled herself out from the shaft and, still on her hands and knees, held her candle aloft and looked around her. Through the gloom she made out that she was in the center of a circle from which spiraled not one but five different tunnels. “Which one shall I pick?” she mumbled to herself as she spun on the spot. “How do I know which is the right one?”

As she turned, holding out her candle to get a better look, her hands and knees sent up small clouds of dirt. She coughed, wafting a hand through the air. “So dusty,” she spluttered, looking downward. “It's like crawling in snow. I'm leaving hand- and footprints everywhere. Hang on! If I'm leaving a trail, then anyone else who was here must have left one too! If I find it and follow it, then I'll be able to pick the right tunnel!”

Bending down even farther, she scoured the floor, and there, off to her right, was a set of scuffle marks that were not her own. Wilma was ecstatic. “I must remember to tell Mr. Goodman about this,” she said, grinning as she crawled off in that direction. “That's my best deduction yet!”