Wilma Tenderfoot and the Case of the Putrid Poison (7 page)

“I give up. That's the last time I'm playing a board game with you, Pickle,” Wilma said, bending down to retrieve the scattered pieces. “And I'm not entirely convinced that you haven't been cheating either.”

Pickle looked sheepish. He
had
been cheating.

Theodore leaned back into his chair and put his thumbs in his waistcoat pockets. “I'd like you to make me a Clue Board for this case.”

Wilma's mouth dropped open. This was by far the most important job she had been given during her apprenticeship to date. She had made her own Clue Board during the Case of the Frozen Hearts, but it hadn't been an official one, so getting to make one for Mr. Goodman was an incredible honor.

“Now, at present we don't know whether the poison was taken by accident or whether it was administered with foul intent. If it was the act of an island Criminal Element, then it is highly likely that it was someone who works at the theatre. That's not to say that it couldn't have been administered by a member of the audience, of course—Barbu D'Anvers was present—but we should start by eliminating the people closest to the victim. Any one of them could have administered the poison before the performance. Inspector Lemone will give you the names of everyone who was there,” Theodore added, “when he's finished eating biscuits.”

“Just found a stray one in my pocket, Goodman,” spluttered the Inspector, trying to look innocent.

“You should find a chapter in your textbook about Clue Boards to remind you how to make one, so read that first. And then, when you're done, perhaps you can give us a small presentation? We can call it a Case Review. Say in an hour, after lunch? If your Clue Board is clear enough, then I might let you transfer everything onto my board in the study. And then we can head over to the theatre. Time is of the essence. How does that sound?”

Wilma nodded with some enthusiasm. “Thank you, Mr. Goodman.” She beamed. “I'll get on it right away!”

Well, this was a privilege! Jam-packed with a surge of get-up-and-go, Wilma ran off to her room, Pickle in tow, and opened her textbook. “Right, then,” she said, running a forefinger down the list of chapter headings. “Clue Boards . . . Clue Boards . . . Hang on. There's a chapter in here called ‘Lost Relatives and How to Find Out About Them'! She quickly flicked to the relevant page.

Wilma stopped reading. “I'll just make a note of that,” she mumbled, reaching for her notebook. “No time to think more about it now, though. I have to get on with the Clue Board.”

She scanned the index pages quickly. “Capers of a criminal nature, page twenty-two; cast-iron alibis, page thirty-four; clapped-out excuses, page seventy-two; Clue Boards, page sixty-seven!”

1. The nature of the crime. What has happened?

2. The victim. To whom did it happen?

3. A map or picture of where the crime took place. Preferably with arrows. These will help focus attention and can give a Board a dramatic look. Which is lovely.

4. A list of the suspects, along with their pictures, for quick identification.

5. Motives. Crimes generally happen for a reason. Why? And who benefits?

6. Any forensic results. Especially knotty ones are excellent. Complicated scientific data will bamboozle suspects and, more importantly, make you look good.

7. General clues, contemplations, and deductions.

8. Connections between suspects, maps, clues, motives, science, and victims should be made using string and pins. Blue string is best.

“First things first then, Pickle,” Wilma announced, thumping the book closed and leaping off her bed. “We need to find something to make the board out of and some blue string!

“Mrs. Speckle!” Wilma panted, running down the stairs and into the kitchen. “Mr. Goodman has asked me to make a Clue Board and I was wondering if—”

“No time!” barked Mrs. Speckle, who was rolling out a piece of pastry to go over a pie. “There's this to finish, a pudding to bake, and, what's more, my Wellingtons are worn through! I need to knit myself some new ones! You'll have to find something on your own!”

Wilma, who was small but very determined, knew she needed to tread carefully. “Don't suppose you've got any blue string then?” she asked, twisting the bottom of her pinafore.

“No, I do not!” snapped Mrs. Speckle, pushing up the double bobble hats that had slumped down over her eyes. “Blue string indeed. Off with you! I'm up to my eyes in kidneys and puffy toppings! I can't be bothered with small girls and beagles and their incessant questions. Try in the attic! That's packed with rubbish!”

Pickle, as we all know, is no slouch. And as the irascible housekeeper sent them packing he had the wherewithal to very quietly pick up a loose thread that was hanging from the back of Mrs. Speckle's battered blue Wellington. As he trotted away, the boot on Mrs. Speckle's left foot slowly began to unravel and, by the time he and Wilma had gotten themselves to the attic door, Pickle had a considerable length of loose wool hanging from his mouth and Mrs. Speckle was staring down at her woolen sock wondering where her boot had gone.

“Oh!” said Wilma, bending down to roll the length of wool into a ball. “Where did you get this? This will be perfect for our Clue Board.”

Pickle looked the other way. After all, Wilma didn't need to know EVERYTHING.

The attic was a dusty mess. Filled with boxes and rolled-up rugs, it looked as if someone had tipped a house upside down and shaken the contents into it. There were books, photograph albums, lamp shades, teacups, cake tins, bicycle saddles, large terrible paintings, tablecloths, and, much to Pickle's alarm, a stuffed dog on wheels. At first sight, there didn't seem to be anything that Wilma might be able to use, but she wasn't about to be deterred that easily.

“Mr. Goodman always says,” she explained to Pickle as she pushed aside a heap of blankets, “that a good detective should be able to think not just in a straightforward way, but in an upside-down, roundabout way as well. He gives it a proper phrase. It's called ‘thinking outside of the box.' So let's try it. There's nothing here that looks as if we can use it, but, thinking in a wonky way, that large terrible painting over there wouldn't be missed by anyone. Who wants a picture of a bunch of dogs playing poker? Nobody.”

Pickle shook his head in agreement.

“So if we take that and paint it white, then we'll have ourselves a Clue Board. And that, Pickle, is the best cockeyed thought I expect I'll have today.”

 

Theodore had one eye on his fob watch. It was a few seconds to his post-lunch peppermint tea and corn crumbles, and with Inspector Lemone quietly dozing on the chaise longue, there was a fighting chance that, for once, he might get to the biscuits first.

The door to his study flew open.

“Mr. Goodman!” announced Wilma, splattered with paint. “I have completed the Clue Board. Bring it in, Pickle!”

Pickle, covered with paint from nose to tail, had a rope in his mouth. Behind him the Clue Board was balanced precariously on the back of the stuffed dog on wheels.

Theodore, sensing that everything was teetering on the edge of disaster, got up. “Let me help you with that,” he said, rushing over to take hold of the board. “Quite large, isn't it? Where do you want it to go, Wilma? It's quite heavy too . . . in fact . . .”

“Peppermint tea and corn crumbles, Mr. Goodman!” rattled Mrs. Speckle, marching in behind them.

“Corn crumbles?” mumbled the Inspector, opening an eye.

“I'll just put them here,” she added, slamming her tray down on a side table. “They're right next to you, Inspector. Can't stop. Only got one Wellington.” And with that she marched straight back out again.

Theodore peered out from behind the Clue Board. The biscuits were already gone. “Would it be too much to ask that occasionally you might wait for me to take one before eating all the corn crumbles, Inspector?”

“Corn crumbles gone?” asked the Inspector, sitting up and swallowing rapidly. “So they have. Who did that then?”

“Over here, please, Mr. Goodman,” directed Wilma, pointing toward an easel that she had placed in the corner of the room next to the window. “I'm ready for the Case Review now. Pickle, can I have the stick, please?”

Wilma's Clue Board was a mass of wool, arrows, and scraps of paper. Unable to find proper pictures of any of her suspects, she had resorted to making collage faces from old pictures in magazines. She had cut eyes out here and chins out there. Odd noses were glued onto skewed mouths and, in at least one picture, she had used animal ears instead of human ones.

“This case started,” Wilma began as Theodore sat down and picked up his cup of peppermint tea, “when Sabbatica”—she pointed her stick toward a face with one large eye—“was killed by a suspicious substance that was almost certainly a poison.” She moved her stick along a piece of blue wool to a hand-drawn picture of a bottle with a skull and crossbones on it. “This took place at the Valiant Vaudeville Theatre. I couldn't find a picture of it, so I've used this drawing of a cowshed instead. She may have been poisoned by accident, so I have drawn a picture of a moldy fish. But she may have also been poisoned quite deliberately. So far the top suspects are everyone who was supposed to appear onstage that night.” She ran her stick along a long line of disfigured faces. “But it also could have been anyone who worked at the theatre. There's the prop boy, Malcolm Poppledore; Mrs. Grumbletubs, the laundry mistress—I ran out of eyes, but I'm assuming she has some in real life; and her son, Geoffrey, who carries things around. Obviously it might also have been anyone in the audience. I have stuck up a picture of Barbu D'Anvers because he's the most likely.”

“I don't recall D'Anvers having goofy teeth and a pair of thick spectacles . . .” Inspector Lemone frowned, rubbing his chin.

“Never mind that now,” battled on Wilma, “because, last but not least, we must also include the manager himself, Baron von Worms. And this bucket. With some seaweed in it.”

“Bucket and seaweed?” asked Theodore, trying not to smile too much.

“Yes,” said Wilma in a very serious manner, “it's almost definitely an omen-knee.”

“Anomaly, Wilma,” corrected Theodore. “Say it again. An-omo-lee.”

“An-omo-lee,” repeated Wilma slowly.

“So in your professional opinion, Wilma,” the great detective continued, raising his chin a little, “who do you think is the culprit? Remember we need to think about not only who, but how and why. Who had the motive, Wilma? Something against Sabbatica?”

Wilma mustered up her most serious face to date. This, she realized, would be a good time to tap her stick on the Clue Board a bit more. In an official capacity. So she did. Then pursing her lips and knotting her eyebrows, she turned to her mentor. “To conclude, Mr. Goodman,” she pronounced with some importance, “and thinking wonkily, it could be anyone.”

“That is certainly very . . . wonky,” replied Theodore with a small nod. “Well, for a first attempt, it's not that bad, Wilma. You've grasped the basics. It's a bit busy and we'll have to change . . . well . . . all of it, but not bad.”

“And I didn't know Cecily Lovely had cat's ears,” said the Inspector, taking a closer look at the Clue Board.”

“Oh yes,” answered Wilma, giving the Clue Board its firmest tap yet. “Ohhh yes.”

 

And we're off.

“
U
gh,” said Barbu D'Anvers with a grimace. Standing at the window of his office in the Valiant Vaudeville Theatre, he was staring down into the street. “That ghastly detective is back with his idiot Inspector and that revolting child. Is there any way we can stop them? Can't I ban them from coming in or something?”

“Probably not, master,” answered Janty, who was busy painting a large sign that read “STAGE OF DEATH!”“Besides, having a detective snooping around will remind everyone that someone's died. It'll be good for business.”

Barbu turned and smirked at his young charge. “Well, well,” he said, twirling his cane. “You do surprise me. Thinking like a proper villain already. You're right. Having him here WILL be good for business. In fact, we must keep him here for as long as possible. Hamper their investigations, Janty. After all, we don't want him to
solve
the case. Let's make things difficult for them. That way, we get to remind people that the theatre has had a grisly death AND that Theodore P. Goodman is utterly hopeless!”