Wilma Tenderfoot and the Case of the Putrid Poison (3 page)

“There must be another clue here somewhere,” said Wilma, following Pickle to the end of the alleyway. “Oh no, Pickle! How many times do I have to tell you!” she cried, reaching down. “Don't chew other people's lost socks!” Grabbing hold of the stinking sock, Wilma pulled it from Pickle's lips and flung it with some disgust toward the wall to her right. But as the revolting item hit the side of the Academy the wall's surface bent in on itself and, to Wilma's surprise, the sock bounced straight back and hit her in the mouth.

If you have ever had a stinking, wet sock that's been on who knows whose foot hit you full in the face, then you will know that as the dripping, smelly toe end slimed its way over Wilma's tongue, our young heroine experienced a disgust so complete that all she could do for the next five minutes was spin on the spot with her tongue out while trying to rub at it frantically with the end of her pinafore. Pickle just sat and stared at her. Stinking socks were lovely. She didn't know what she was missing.

Panting and satisfied that the last dregs of sock juice were expelled from her mouth, Wilma looked back at the wall where the sock had struck. “That sock shouldn't have bounced back,” she said, peering a little closer.

She pressed her fingertips against the wall's surface, and suddenly realized that it was made from nothing more than a tightly drawn piece of material that had been painted to match its surroundings.

“It's just cloth!” Wilma exclaimed, eyes shining with excitement. “It's a secret covering! We must have to break through it! But how?” she added, tapping her foot. “Ah-ha!” she declared with a snap of her fingers. “I've got a safety pin in my pocket! I can use that!”

Taking the pin from her pinafore pocket, Wilma opened it out and stabbed at the camouflaged surface. The wall made a popping noise as the tension left it. Dragging the pin downward, Wilma made a hole large enough to fit both her hands. Reaching in, she grabbed either side of the cloth, tore with all her might, and poked her head in through the gap. “Oh my goodness,” she panted. “It's not a door. It's a hidden recess. And there's a statue in here!”

The statue was standing on a platform that was a little taller than Wilma. It was of a man, tall and noble-looking. In one hand he was holding a magnifying glass aloft and in the other a small plate that seemed to be covered in what Wilma could only assume were carved stone corn crumbles. “Biscuits AND a magnifying glass?” she thought out loud. “He must be a detective. Yes, look! There's another plaque here.”

“That's it! He's the founder! All buildings depend on their foundations. A foundation can be a beginning! It's just like Mr. Goodman says. He's always using words that mean lots of things at once. It's a cunning detective thing. Wait a minute . . . Look here, Pickle. There's a handle. The side of the platform is a door! Oh my! I think we've done it! I think we've found the entrance!”

Grabbing hold of the handle, and with a considerable shove of her shoulder, Wilma pushed open the secret door and the plucky pair found themselves standing in a doorway that led into a corridor. They were inside the Academy at last.

“Help,” sounded a voice, somewhere in the distance. “Hello! Help!”

 

An unknown voice calling for help? Someone in trouble? But who? And why? You'll just have to read on. Cancel all your plans. This is going to get chilly.

W
ilma and Pickle had stepped straight into the corridor. The floor was covered with tiles painted with question marks, and a large mirror in the shape of a magnifying glass hung on the wall opposite the doorway. Portraits of great detectives lined the hallway. “Look, Pickle!” whispered Wilma, pointing upward. “It's Mr. Goodman! And look there! It's the detective's top tips! Carved into that stone tablet! Number five: ‘When escaping, be circuitous.' That's my second-favorite.”

Pickle snorted. He was enjoying the smell of floor polish and would have quite liked to roll around a bit on the tiles, but this was a serious moment and frivolity would have to wait.

“How peculiar,” noted Wilma, looking about. “Where is everyone? The place is empty.”

And then it came again. “Help!” sounded the voice. “This way! Thank you!”

“Where's that coming from?” asked Wilma, cocking her head to one side. “I can't quite work it out. Do you think this is part of the entrance exam, Pickle? Detectives sometimes
do
have to save people.”

If Pickle could have shrugged, he would have. But he couldn't. Just as he couldn't sit upright in a chair and cross his legs, peel oranges, or conduct an orchestra. Much as he might wish it, he would never be able to do any of these things. It was a burden he had learned to live with.

Wilma set off down the corridor. There was a large notice board to her left. On it was one small note: “Cheese, milk, bread, corn crumbles.”

“How strange. It looks like a shopping list. That reminds me. I think I'll eat my biscuits.”

Taking the two corn crumbles out of her pinafore pocket, Wilma began to munch. There were rooms off the corridor and as Wilma walked past she pointed them out to Pickle. “ ‘Disguises,' ” she read, peering at the brass plate on one door. She stood up on her tiptoes to look in through the window. “It must be a classroom! Look at all those hats! And wigs! What's the next one? ‘Creeping and Sneaking.' That sounds good. Oh! Look here. ‘Calming Ladies of a Hysterical Persuasion.' How exciting. Let's have a quick peek.”

Wilma opened the door into the classroom. “Only one desk,” she noted with a small frown. In front of a small blackboard, a wax dummy of a lady in a flouncy blouse was sitting on a display table. The blue-rinsed head was slumped toward the chest and a pair of long arms dangled down. Wilma bent forward to take a closer look. “It's very realistic,” she muttered. “Almost spooky.”

Wilma reached forward to raise the dummy's head by its chin, but as she touched it, the arms shot upward and a dreadful wailing rang out. The dummy was screaming! Wilma had activated it!

“Oh no!” Wilma cried as the arms flailed in front of her. The sound was unbearable and Pickle, a sensitive hound who didn't like surprises, took one look at the screaming dummy and ran off to hide behind a pile of books in the corner. “I don't know how to turn it off!” Wilma yelled. “It's gone all hysterical!”

Sticking a finger in one ear, Wilma grabbed a nearby blackboard eraser and threw it at the dummy. It bounced off the waxy quivering chin. But the terrible wailing continued! Then Wilma tried stuffing the dummy into the large trash can to her left, covering it with a bit of curtain and running around the room with it. Not only was it still screaming, but the dummy's windmilling arms were knocking everything on every available surface to the floor. The room looked as if it had been hit by a hurricane.

“This is terrible!” Wilma cried out. “How am I going to stop it? There must be something in here that can help!” She spun around wildly. In the far corner to her right, there was a poster with a picture of a woman sobbing. Above the image were the words: “Hysterical Lady? Needs Calming?” And below: “Remember the three S's! Shake! Shout! Slap!”

“Shake. Shout. Slap,” Wilma repeated. “Right then.” Taking the dummy—still half stuffed in the bin—by the shoulders, she gave it a quick shake. Then, “Crazy dummy lady!” she yelled over the noise. “Calm down! I said calm down!” Finally, Wilma took her left hand and slapped the dummy firmly across its cheek.

At last, the dummy fell silent, its arms dropping to its side. It had chalk dust on its chin and somehow it had managed to pick up an assortment of ink pens that were now sticking accusingly out of its blue-rinsed hair.

“Thank goodness,” Wilma breathed. “Let's hope I don't have to have many lessons in here, eh, Pickle?”

The beagle crept out from his hiding place and trotted nonchalantly to the door, shaking one back leg as he went. It is very important for small dogs to maintain an air of cool at all times. Especially when they have just been hiding in a corner and doing nothing for the last five minutes.

Wilma, still panting, slammed the classroom door shut behind them. “What an awful class that must be!” she said, shaking her head.

“I say!” a voice rang out in the distance. “I wonder if you could help! Hello! Help, please!”

Pickle pricked his ears, went a bit stiff, and pointed his nose firmly in the direction the voice had come from. “You're right,” said Wilma with a nod. “It is coming from that way. Let's see who it is!” And off they ran toward the end of the corridor.

The unidentified voice was coming from behind a double set of doors. “Help, please!” it shouted calmly. “This way! Help!” Wilma looked down at Pickle and raised her eyebrows. It was all hugely exciting and if attending the Academy was always going to be like this, then she couldn't wait to join. With a hefty shove, she pushed open the two doors, looked up, and gasped.

“Oh, thank goodness,” said the woman hanging upside down in front of her. “I say, you wouldn't lend a hand, would you? I seem to have gotten myself in an awful mess.”

“How did you get all tangled up like that?” asked Wilma, gazing at the figure tethered into a mass of climbing ropes.

“Not quite sure,” replied the disheveled lady. “I was trying out some new knots. Anyway. One thing led to another. There's a stepladder over there. You can use that to get up. If I remember correctly, you just have to pull that loose cord at the end of my foot. That should release me.”

Wilma ran to fetch the stepladder and then quickly climbed up. She reached for the rope and gave it a sharp tug and the rest of the ropes magically unwrapped themselves and the woman, who had been tied up good and proper, fell suddenly to the floor.

She was dressed in khaki jodhpurs, with a crisp white shirt tucked into the waistband. Her sleeves were rolled up to her elbows and she had brown leather knee boots on. Her hair was a dirty blond, her eyes a flashing green, and she had a dark smudge of something unidentifiable running across one cheek and over her nose. In all, she was the sort of lady that certain gentlemen would say, “If she was tidied up, she'd actually be jolly pretty.” But certain gentlemen sometimes don't know what they're talking about and some ladies, however they choose to look, are perfectly lovely just as they are. Remember that.

“Thanks awfully,” she said, getting to her feet and dusting herself down. “I'm Kite Lambard. I'm the headmistress here. Who are you?”

“I'm Wilma Tenderfoot,” replied the ten-year-old. “I just took the entrance exam.”

“Did you really? Golly. Is it Thursday already? I think I've been up there since Monday. Wilma Tenderfoot, eh? Funny sort of name.”

“It was pulled out of a hat by Madam Skratch at the Institute for Woeful Children. Quite lucky, really. The orphan before me got Slug Oozely. I used to live at the Institute before I went to work for Mrs. Waldock. Then she got frozen and then I almost got frozen and then I went to work for Theodore P. Goodman instead. I'm his apprentice.”

“Oh yes. I think I sent you a letter. Sorry. My memory is shockingly bad. Anyway. Hello. What can I do for you?”

Wilma felt a bit puzzled. “I just took the entrance exam. I had to find the entrance and . . . I did.”

Kite blinked and pursed her lips. “Oh, wait. I think I'm supposed to do something official at this point. You'll have to excuse me. You're the first person I've had take the exam. I'm not quite sure what happens next. I'll just check. There's a book somewhere. Got loads of useful stuff in it.” She strode over to a desk in the corner and opened some drawers. “Now where did I put it?” she mumbled, having a good rummage. “I think I'm supposed to enroll you or something. But I'm not entirely sure I didn't throw it away . . .”

Wilma shot a quick glance in Pickle's direction. He was looking less than impressed.

“Ah-ha! Panic over!” Kite was waving an important-looking embossed book at them and tapping it with her finger. “Here we are!
How to Enroll a Pupil into the Academy of Detection and Espionage.
Right, then. Let's get on with it.” She cleared her throat and began to read. “‘Please stand up.' Oh. You're doing that already. Well done. ‘You have successfully completed the entrance exam for the Academy of Detection and Espionage.' Seriously—well done. It's jolly difficult. ‘Now pass the applicant the textbook
Everything You Will Ever Need to Know About Detection and Espionage.
' Oh. I don't think I was supposed to read that bit out loud. I've got a pile over here. Hang on. Yes! There you go!”

“Thank you,” answered Wilma, taking the book from her new headmistress and, opening it to the first page, read out loud:

 

1. Look, listen, and learn.

2. Try to be useful.

3. Always follow orders.

4. If in doubt, stand very still and do nothing.

5. Avoid mucking things up spectacularly.

 

“Yes,” added Kite, “those are quite important. You might want to memorize them. Anyway, back to the ceremony. ‘Now give the applicant a leather-bound detective's notebook and an apprentice detective badge and then say something encouraging.' Super. Right. Well, there's your notebook. You can write things in that, I expect. And here's your badge.” Kite bent down and pinned a small silver badge to Wilma's pinafore. “Right. Something encouraging . . . Is that your dog?”