Wilma Tenderfoot and the Case of the Frozen Hearts (10 page)

“What's
fathom
?” asked Wilma, jumping onto a chair just before the world-famous detective could reach the biscuit.

“Well,” began Theodore, mustache twitching, “it can be a nautical term by which current depth is determined. But in this context, to fathom something means to understand it. So if you were unable to fathom the evidence you're looking at now, then that would mean you were unable to work it out.”

“You're always using words that mean two things at once,” said Wilma. “That's tricky.” Wilma examined the Clue Board as she spoke. It was covered in handwritten notes at the center of which was a small blueprint of the vault where the Katzin Stone had been kept. To its right there was a picture of the stone itself, and from that two long pieces of string, one of which led to a picture of Alan Katzin and his aunt enjoying a lemon meringue pie in happier days while the other led to a second picture of the empty plinth at the museum. Along the bottom of the board there was a stenciled heading that read
Suspects,
under which there was a mugshot of Jeremy Burling and next to him the word
Magician?
Finally, to the left of the board there was a section marked
Method,
in which there was a receipt from someone called Penbert for “One sugarylooking shard.”

“You always write things down, don't you, Mr. Goodman? That's top tip number six,” said Wilma, staring upward. She thought long and hard about everything she'd seen and, as she lost herself in a trail of deductions, she inadvertently took a large bite out of the corn crumble in her hand.

“Ohhhh!” puffed Mrs. Speckle, who threw her arms as far into the air as her double-knitted cardigan would allow. “Well, that's that!” she mumbled as she left the room. “Lowsiders and biscuits. Never in all my days!”

Theodore frowned, gave a small sigh, and returned to his desk. “Yes, well. Anyway, I should be getting on. The missing Katzin Stone and all that.”

Wilma, whose mouth was full of biscuit, turned and held up a finger. “I have been doing some contemplating and I think I have a deduction,” she announced, spitting corn-crumble crumbs everywhere. “When I saw the bit of the fake Katzin Stone, I thought it looked like caramel, but I told you that already. So I think the fake Katzin Stone must have been made by someone who's brilliant at toffee shapes. But not just toffee shapes, because it was clever the way it all melted but deadly because it turned into poison. It's a bit confusing, because anyone who loved making toffee would never love making poison as well.”

“Hmmm,” pondered Theodore. “That's not quite how it works but . . . good try . . .”

Wilma grinned delightedly. “Does this mean I'm your apprentice now?” she asked, swallowing the last bit of biscuit.

Theodore stopped what he was doing and looked at her, but before he could answer, there was a knock at the study door. It was Mrs. Speckle.

“Sorry to interrupt, Mr. Goodman. Telegram's just come. It's from Inspector Lemone.”

“Ah, excellent,” said Theodore, holding his hand out. “Thank you, Mrs. Speckle.” He flipped over the sealed end of the telegram and read it out loud:

“Who's Dr. Kooks, Mr. Goodman?” askedWilma.

“Titus Kooks. He conducts forensic tests on dead bodies.”

“Forensic?” asked Wilma.

Theodore P. Goodman, who was a very serious and thorough detective, gave an impatient sigh. Here he was, in the middle of a deadly investigation, and this small inquisitive child was taking up his valuable time and eating his biscuits. All the same, he never liked to be rude and, spotting something on his shelf, he realized how he could extricate himself from this inconvenient situation.

“Here,” said the detective, handing Wilma the small dictionary he had pulled off his shelf. “You can keep that to look up any words you don't understand.”

“Can I come?” asked Wilma, following him out of the study.

“No,” said Theodore, striding away. “You're too young to see a dead body.” And with that, he swept out of the house.

 

As Wilma wandered back into Mrs. Waldock's kitchen she stared at the dictionary in her hand and flipped to
forensic.
“Science used in a court of law” she read. “Hmmm. I suspect there'll be more clues. Sounds too important to miss. And I ought to start putting those top tips into practice so I can impress Mr. Goodman even more . . .”

“Wilma!” shouted her employer from the adjacent room. “Where are my liver-porridge-potato cakes?”

Wilma gasped and looked down at Pickle, who was lying on his back, legs in the air and snoring, next to a very empty bowl. It would appear that Wilma hadn't been the only one to eat something she shouldn't.

V
isser Haanstra was tired. Leaning back on his heels, he held the base of his back with his hands and rubbed. He wore a scruffy cloth cap on his head and had spectacles shaped like kidney beans. “I've run out of glue,” said a small voice. It was Janty, Visser's ten-year-old son. Pushing a mass of unruly dark curls out of his eyes, the boy bent forward onto his father's work bench and rested his chin into his hands. His eyes were a soft, watery gray and his nose was freckled. He wore a dark green sweater, full of holes and frayed at the arms, his brown shorts were covered in small black patches, and the sneakers on his feet were scuffed and torn. His hands were stained, his nails dirty. All in all he gave off a rather grubby aspect, as if he'd been scraped up from the bottom of a trash can.

Visser took off his spectacles and wiped at his eyes with his handkerchief.

“I think there's some in the outhouse. You can look there. Show me what you're making.”

Janty held up a half-finished brooch. Visser took it in his hands and peered at it. “What's it supposed to be?”

“A squirrel, but I haven't started the tail yet so it looks more like a peanut.”

“Not bad, Janty,” said Visser. “We'll make a forger of you yet.”

 

The more well-behaved of you might be shocked that a father involved in illegal enterprises would encourage a son to do the same. But a family business is a family business and because Janty was an only child, the responsibility to carry on the tradition of being bad fell to him. If he'd had a pesky brother or a very naughty sister, then Janty might have been able to be an acrobat or an insurance salesman, but he didn't, so that was that.

 

Visser's workshop was situated in a basement on the edge of the small rundown village of Much Mithering on the Lowside of the island. It was a clutter of tools, books, and bags of colored sugar. In the corner was a large iron stove on top of which sat a bubbling pot. Next to the pot was a heated flat stone covered with spatulas and tongs, and next to that was a steaming cupboard where thin sheets of warm caramel hung on racks. The air was heavy with a sickly sweet smell, and a warm mist filled the room. Visser unscrewed the vise on his workbench. “Janty,” he said, holding out a small delicate item, “take this. It's the copy of the LeGassick jewel box.”

The entire thing was made from sugar. “It's wonderful, Father,” said Janty, eyes wide with admiration as he looked from the replica to the newspaper cutting showing the original. “Will I ever be able to make something like that?”

“One day,” said Visser, patting his son on the back. “One day. Now, wrap it up for me in a packing box. Then bring me the order book.”

“Yes, Father,” said the young boy, jumping down from the workbench stool.

With his work done for the day, Visser undid his leather apron and hung it on a hook. Reaching into a cupboard next to the stove, he lifted down a sturdy black soup pan and filled it with barley, meadow grass, and reed juice. Then, unclipping the lid of a seeping yellow container, he took a handful of squirming slugs and threw them into the brew. As he stirred, Visser heard the door behind him click. “Make sure you've washed your hands,” said the forger, lifting the spoon to his mouth to give it a lick.

“I don't think there'll be any need for that,” said a voice, and suddenly Visser felt an iron grip around his throat. Choking, he fell against the soup pan, sending it spilling across the floor. Visser clawed at the fingers around his neck, but it was hopeless. He was being dragged backward, away from the stove, and in one quick movement he found himself twisted around and staring at a very short and very well-dressed man. “Hello, Visser,” said the voice, holding out his silver-topped walking cane and giving the forger a prod. “Remember me? That'll do for now, Tully. Let him go.”

The henchman released his hold on Visser's neck and the forger fell to the floor, coughing and spluttering. “Slug stew?” said Barbu, flicking one of the spilled creatures from his boot. “How very rustic.”

“What do you want, Barbu?” coughed Visser as he scrabbled back against the leg of his workbench. He had to warn Janty. Under the rim of the marble top there was a silent alarm. If he could just reach up and press it . . . SLAM! Down came the silver-topped cane, smashing Visser's fingers against the leg of the bench. “Aaaaaagh!” cried out the forger.

“You wouldn't be trying to tell someone that we're here, would you, Mr. Haanstra?” said Barbu, poking his cane under Visser's chin and pushing upward. “Tully, check that we're alone.”

“Yes, Mr. Barbu,” said the henchman, walking in the direction of the door.

“There's no one else here!” yelled Visser, clutching his broken fingers with a grimace.

“I'll be the judge of that,” said Barbu with an evil sneer. “Boo-hoo, Mr. Haanstra, have I hurt you? I'd hate to have to hurt you again. But I'm a man who likes to know things. And when anyone knows something that I don't, that makes me very, very angry. What can I say? I'm a nightmare.”

Barbu D'Anvers lowered himself into the workshop armchair as Visser stared wild-eyed at the door leading in from the outhouse. “So, Mr. Haanstra, let's get down to it,” began Barbu. “The Katzin Stone—where is it?”

“What?” said Visser, shaking. “How should I know?”

Barbu tapped at the top of his cane and tilted his head to one side. “Let me put that a different way. You tell me where the Katzin Stone is and I might not break the fingers in your other hand.”

“I—I don't know what you're talking about,” stammered Visser.

The back door burst open. “No one there, Mr. Barbu,” declared Tully with a shrug.

Visser's chest heaved with relief. Janty must have heard all the noise and realized it meant trouble. He would have followed procedure and hidden himself in a hollow tree at the bottom of the garden.

“Good,” said Barbu . . .

 

It's at this point that gentle eyes should turn away. We don't need to know all the gory, horrible details of what Barbu did next. So let's think about something more uplifting, like finding a forgotten fruity chewy sweet in the bottom of a pocket or discovering a kitten in a sock. We don't need to know that Barbu crushed Visser's glasses between Tully's buttocks. We don't need to know that he stuffed mashed carrot up his nose. And we certainly don't need to know that Tully tied him up, hoisted him over the iron stove, and lowered his feet into the bubbling pot of boiling sugar.

“Cut him down, Tully,” snarled Barbu ten minutes later, twirling his cane with menace. Tully produced a large cutlass from inside his overcoat and swiped at the rope. As it sliced in two, Visser slumped to the floor. He was bleeding and broken.

“Now then,” whispered Barbu, bending down to the forger's face, “tell me what I want to know.”

Visser coughed weakly. “The Katzin Stone,” he began, “is . . .”

But at that exact moment a dart struck him in the neck. The forger looked startled, went stiff, and passed out.

“What the . . . ?!” screamed Barbu, twisting about to see where the dart had come from. An air vent up in the wall snapped shut. “Tully! The air vent! Quickly!”

Tully scrabbled to his feet and ran to where the dart had come from, but it was too late. “There's no one there, boss,” he said, peering up into the tiny opening.

“No! No! Noooooo!” screamed Barbu, striking his cane down hard on the workbench. “No one out-evils me!”

“It goes a long way back,” said Tully. “It could lead anywhere.”

Barbu pulled the dart from the unconcious forger's neck. “Poisoned!” he declared. “Things have taken a twist, Tully. Someone has foiled Barbu D'Anvers.” Throwing the dart to the floor, Barbu raised his face to the ceiling and screamed. “I'm FURIOUS! And I will kill whoever blew that dart. Come on—there's only one place to go to find out who it was.”

“Up the air vent?” asked Tully, scratching his head. “I think I'm a bit big—”

“No! Not up the air vent!” screamed Barbu, bashing his sidekick over the head with his cane. “To the place where all the island's lowlifes and rotten tittle-tattles gather on the Lowside: the Twelve Rats' Tails. Still, we have had a very long day. And it is exhausting torturing people. So we'll go there tomorrow. My cloak, Tully.”

And as the stupid henchman draped his master's cloak over his shoulders, off they swept.