Wilma Tenderfoot and the Case of the Frozen Hearts (6 page)

Mrs. Speckle rolled her eyes. The peppermint tea was quite ruined and, as if that wasn't bad enough, there were now minor injuries to be dealing with. Pushing herself up as high as she could, given that she was wearing flat knitted Wellington boots, the housekeeper tried to get a look at Wilma's cut finger, but it was no good. She was too short, and her first and second bobble hats had now slipped so far down her forehead that all she could see was wool. Theodore, noticing that his housekeeper was getting into a heavyset muddle, put a hand on her shoulder. “It's all right, Mrs. Speckle,” said he. “I'll fetch her in. And besides,” he added, looking into the pot in front of him, “that peppermint tea is the wrong side of right. I know it and you know it, but if I never taste it, I shan't remember it. So if I fix up our young visitor, then you can fix another pot. And a few corn crumbles will do very nicely. Thank you, Mrs. Speckle.”

Even though this solved all manner of current difficulties, Mrs. Speckle was a stubborn old lady not given to instant acts of forgiving and forgetting, and as she shoved her two bobble hats back up her forehead and set about making another pot of peppermint tea, she mumbled something under her breath that some grown-ups might take exception to. With that in mind, and given that soft eyes are watching, it's in nobody's interests to repeat Mrs. Speckle's words here. Let's just say she was annoyed and leave it at that.

As Theodore stepped out into the side garden of Clarissa Cottage, which was the proper name of the house in which he lived, he looked down and saw Wilma still lying in his flower bed and holding her bleeding finger aloft. Next to her was sitting a crumpled-looking beagle. Theodore P. Goodman did not have younglings of his own, as he was not married. He had been engaged once to a dancer named Betty but, well, the less said about that the better. So as the famous detective stared down at the little girl, he wasn't quite sure what to do. Theodore was used to daily dealings with the island's Criminal Elements, who were burly fellows with poor personal hygiene and crooked teeth, but when it came to small, cheeky children he had little, if any, experience. “Yes, well,” said Theodore, looking at Wilma over the top of his mighty mustache, “this won't do. Up you get and follow me.”

Wilma's finger was stinging, and if she'd had a mother who had kind eyes and comfy arms she would have cried that very instant, but as she followed the famous detective into Clarissa Cottage, and saw the short, sharp look that Mrs. Speckle gave her, she realized that crying wouldn't get her anywhere. Besides, Wilma was so thrilled to be actually inside the house of Theodore P. Goodman that her stinging finger was almost forgotten.

“I've come from the Institute for Woeful Children. I'm going to be a detective,” said Wilma, trotting to keep up with Theodore, who was striding ahead of her.

“Really?” said Theodore, to be polite.

“I am,” said Wilma. “I'll probably just solve the larger cases. You know, murders and . . . some more murders.”

“Hmmm. In here, please,” said Theodore, gesturing into a large bathroom. Theodore P. Goodman was not a man used to the chitter-chatter of small girls. He wanted to fix this young child's finger, send her on her way, and sit down to a nice cup of peppermint tea and a plate of corn crumbles. In short, as far as he was concerned, a serious detective and a girl from a Woeful Institute had no business being friends. None at all.

“What a big bathroom!” exclaimed Wilma. In the far corner there was a round bathtub so grand it was elevated from the floor with steps going up to it. Above it were three arched windows that blazed with sunshine, while the floor was a mass of tiny colored tiles. “Hang on a minute!” she said, cocking her head to one side to get a better view. “Look at the floor, Pickle! It's a map of Cooper Island!”

Pickle barked. Not because he understood what a map was, because he didn't. He's a dog. But because he quite liked all the new smells.

“That's right,” said Theodore, opening a cupboard above the sink. “It's called a mosaic.”

“Mosaic,” said Wilma, looking down and nodding. “That's the fourth new thing I've seen today.”

Theodore smiled and pulled out a small stool that was kept next to the laundry basket. “Sit here, please, and hold out your finger,” he said, pushing the stool toward her.

“Who's that?” asked Wilma, sitting and pointing at a photograph that was hanging on the wall. The photograph was in black and white and was of a young boy standing next to a grave-looking gentleman who was wearing an expression that said, “Not today, thank you,” which is something adults say when people they don't want to be bothered by try to bother them. Theodore, who was unwrapping a ball of cotton, cast a glance over toward the wall.

“Well now,” said Theodore, “the young boy is me. And the gentleman was a very great detective called Anthony Amber. He taught me everything I know.”

“Were you his apprentice?” asked Wilma, spinning around to stare the detective square in the face.

“Yes, that is correct. Hold out your finger, please. I can't clean it if it's being waved here, there, and everywhere.”

“So does that mean you came from the Lowside, like me?” asked Wilma, eyes widening.

“No,” said Theodore, giving her a small smile, “I'm afraid I'm very much from the Farside. But I don't really hold with all that Farside, Lowside business.”

“So who's your apprentice?” asked Wilma, fixing Theodore with an unblinking gaze.

Sensing where this was leading, Theodore concentrated on cleaning the blood from the end of Wilma's finger. He dropped the cotton into a trash can to his left and unraveled a length of bandage. “I don't have an apprentice,” he said eventually, realizing that Wilma was still staring at him.

“That's a bad business,” said Wilma, shaking her head and pursing her lips together, “but I can start today. So that's that problem solved. I mean, I'll have to do my chores for Mrs. Waldock, but I'm sure I can spare you a few hours.”

Theodore dropped the bandage on the floor and frowned a little. Bending down to pick it up, he wondered how he had gotten himself into this mess and how he was going to get himself out of it. He was well used to telling people bad news about ghastly thefts and gruesome murders. That was part of his job. But telling small girls bad news about hopes, dreams, and job prospects was something else entirely. Still, thought Theodore, it's always best to be honest and straightforward, so, wrapping Wilma's finger with the bandage, he looked right at her and said, “I'm not looking for an apprentice right now, thank you. Keep your hand up.”

Wilma blinked. “But you will need one soon?” she asked with a plaintive look. “Because I only live next door. I know I'm not a detective yet, but I have got some experience. Like last week, at the Institute, a bag of hard candy went missing from Tommy Barton's desk and no one knew who'd done it, but I worked out it was Frank Finley because when I was talking to him his mouth was full of sweets.”

“That must have required a great deal of deduction,” said Theodore with a small smile.

“What's
deduction
?” asked Wilma. The word rang a bell. “Isn't that when you do math problems but take away rather than add? What's that got to do with Tommy Barton's candy?”

Theodore tied the ends of Wilma's bandage in a knot.
“Deduction,”
he explained, “is one word used for math problems when you take away rather than add. That is correct. But in this context it means working something out after examining a series of clues.”

Wilma stared at Theodore. “What does
context
mean?”

Theodore made a small noise in the back of his throat. “
Context
means the situation in which something exists. So in the context of math, deduction means taking one number away from another. In the context of crime, a deduction is the solving of a clue based on the facts. So in the case of Tommy Barton's candy, the fact that Frank Finley was discovered with a mouth full of sweets is a clue that could lead to the deduction that it was he who was the culprit.
Culprit
means person who did it.”

Wilma nodded. “Oh yes, I remember. Deductions. It's number two of your top tips for detecting. And contemplating is number one! Does this mean I'm your apprentice now, because being an apprentice means you learn stuff from someone who knows what they're talking about?” Theodore stared back at Wilma. “That is what I have deductioned,” said Wilma, looking very serious.

“Deduced, not deductioned,” said Theodore. “I don't need an apprentice now; neither am I looking for one soon. Well, your finger is all cleaned up and fixed, so I expect you can run along, and you might want to stop your dog from eating that bar of soap.”

“All the same,” said Wilma, hopping down from the stool and taking Pickle by the collar, “if you are looking for one, then I expect I'm the person you're looking for.”

“Hmmm,” said Theodore, holding the bathroom door open. “You remember the way out, don't you? Good-bye.”

“Thank you for fixing my finger, Mr. Goodman,” said Wilma, walking past him and remembering the manners she had forgotten earlier.

Theodore had run out of things to say at this point, but in any event his eye was following the woolen-clad figure of Mrs. Speckle, who was walking toward them with a tray of peppermint tea and corn crumbles. Balancing the tray on one arm, she opened a door to the left of the corridor. As Wilma passed it she peeked in and stopped in her tracks. “Is that your study?” she asked in a squeal of excitement.

“It is, yes,” said Theodore, who was looking over Wilma's head at the plate of corn crumbles that Mrs. Speckle was lifting off the tray.

“Can I look in it?” asked Wilma.

“No, you can't,” said Mrs. Speckle, coming back out of the study. “You've bothered Mr. Goodman enough. Off you go. Inspector Lemone is here, Mr. Goodman. About the Katzin Stone being stolen and two poor souls killed over in Hillbottom.”

Something stolen? Two people murdered? Wilma had to think fast.

Theodore nodded and tucked his fingers into the top of his waistcoat pockets. “Send him in, Mrs. Speckle.”

“Come on, you two, off you go,” said Mrs. Speckle from behind Wilma and Pickle, wiping her hands on her knitted apron.

“Oh!” said Wilma. “I just remembered! I left my scarf in the bathroom!”

Mrs. Speckle sighed. She had to fetch Inspector Lemone, hang out the laundry, and get herself to the baker's before it closed. She looked at Wilma.

“All right,” she said. “Go and get it. But be sure to get yourself home after that, you hear?”

“Yes, Mrs. Speckle,” said Wilma, who had no intention of doing any such thing . . .

I
nspector Lemone was a stodgy fellow whose cheeks looked like buns. He was a bit out of breath because Clarissa Cottage was a good forty-minute walk from the police station, and the Inspector, who had no interest in physical exercise, was very out of shape. Normally an inspector would have a sergeant or a constable who could drive him around on the back of a bicycle or in a fancy carriage, but Cooper only had one police officer and Inspector Lemone was it. He was on his own and at the mercy of sharp inclines.

As Mrs. Speckle returned to the front hallway, Inspector Lemone was feeling in his pockets for a handkerchief to wipe his forehead, which was damp with sweat, but as he heard her coming he abandoned his search and quickly wiped his brow with the sleeve of his raincoat instead. After all, he didn't want Mrs. Speckle to know he couldn't walk for forty minutes without breaking into a sticky mess. The fact that Mrs. Speckle was a widow and that the Inspector had had a soft spot for her for over ten years is nothing to concern us here. This isn't a story about sappy romance, it's a story about murder and stealing, so don't give that piece of information a second thought.

“Mr. Goodman says you can go in now, Inspector,” said Mrs. Speckle, picking up the basket of just-washed laundry that she had left on the side table.

“Thank you, Mrs. Speckle,” said the Inspector, who watched as she picked up the basket. “Can I help you with that?” he added, removing his hat and holding it in his hands.

“No, thank you,” said Mrs. Speckle, oblivious to the Inspector's attentions. Inspector Lemone tried a small smile but Mrs. Speckle wasn't even looking. Oh, what was the point?

 

The Inspector had been at Clarissa Cottage many times over the years and so knew his way to Theodore's study. As he turned and walked up the long corridor from the hallway he heard a small noise. Because it was so small, he couldn't be quite sure what it was or if he had even heard it at all. “Hello?” he called out, peering into the darkness. “Is anyone there?” He stood very still for a few moments, which he enjoyed because it was so physically undemanding, but he heard nothing further. The Inspector shrugged his shoulders and opened the door to Theodore's study.

Theodore P. Goodman's study was a treasure trove of criminal matters. One wall was so covered in awards and certificates and diplomas that diplomas were hanging on certificates and certificates were hanging on awards. There were bookshelves and glass display cases and photos everywhere. By the fireplace were two brown leather armchairs and a small table laid out with a marble Lantha board. Theodore was sitting in one of the armchairs, saucer in one hand and a cup of peppermint tea in the other. As the Inspector sat down, Theodore anxiously noted that Mrs. Speckle had only brought in two corn crumbles, so, with his mouth full of hot peppermint tea, there was little he could do but watch as Inspector Lemone picked up both biscuits and popped them into his mouth. Theodore gulped. “Hmmm,” he said, staring at the empty plate. “Perhaps I'll just ask Mrs. Speckle if we might have a few more corn crumbles.”