Wilma Tenderfoot and the Case of the Frozen Hearts (14 page)

“Note's been sent over from the Museum, Mr. Goodman,” said Mrs. Speckle, paying no attention to the Inspector. “I've left it on the tray.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Speckle,” said the detective, reaching for the handwritten letter and opening it.

“Are those new Wellington boots you're wearing, Mrs. Speckle?”

Mrs. Speckle looked up from under her double bobble hats, glanced at the Inspector, who was standing very strangely, looked down at her boots, and said, “No.” Then, catching sight of Wilma, with Pickle at her heels, Mrs. Speckle, who was deeply suspicious of small, determined girls, gave a tut of disapproval and muttered something under her breath that certainly doesn't need to be repeated here. As soon as she was gone, the Inspector stopped trying to hold his stomach in and wandered over to Theodore's desk.

“The Curator wants to see us later this afternoon,” said Theodore, reading from the letter. “He wants an update on our progress with the case. We'll need to prepare a report. Oh ... you've ... eaten both the corn crumbles, Lemone. Again.”

“Could have sworn they were new Wellingtons,” mumbled the Inspector, staring off in the direction of the doorway.

“Mr. Goodman!” Wilma burst out suddenly, unable to keep quiet any longer. “The thing is, it's like when Mr. Hankley, the baker, makes cakes for Mrs. Waldock. He wouldn't make the cake unless Mrs. Waldock had ordered it, which she did, and so the thing is, someone must have ordered the forger to make the fake stone because no one bakes a cake unless someone wants it . . .”

Theodore held out his hand. “Slow down, Wilma,” he said, gesturing to a stool. “I have something very serious to say to you. Try as I might, I clearly haven't managed to shake you off.”

Wilma nodded. “Well, I can be quite sticky,” she said, ignoring the stool and bouncing around in front of Theodore's desk. “Because once when you gave an interview you said great detectives should always be determined and perspirant.”

“Persistent,” corrected Theodore. “Well, you're certainly that. But the thing is, Wilma, you are following the Inspector and me around when you shouldn't. You are Mrs. Waldock's housegirl. You are not my apprentice.”

“Not yet I'm not, no,” said Wilma with a shake of her head. “But I've been doing the top tips and—”

“Wilma,” interrupted the great detective, “this has to stop. The Inspector and I are trying to investigate a very serious case and we cannot be worrying about where and when you're going to pop up next.”

Wilma looked over at the Inspector for support, but his head was hanging down as if he didn't want to catch her eye.

“So that's that,” added Theodore, getting out his notebook. “No more chasing us around, Wilma. Do you understand?”

It wasn't in Wilma's nature to be silent, but somehow, at that moment, no words would come. Her chest felt as if it had filled with lead and there was a large, uncomfortable lump in her throat.

“I'd offer you a corn crumble before you go, of course,” said Theodore, realizing that Wilma was upset. “But sadly,” he added, throwing his friend a sideways glance, “the Inspector has eaten them all.”

“Didn't mean to,” mumbled Inspector Lemone, still looking at his shoes. “Just sort of happened.”

“Don't worry,” said Wilma quietly. “I'm not hungry now anyway.”

“Hmmm, well then,” said Theodore, twiddling his mustache awkwardly. “Off you go. I'd better be getting on with the assignment for the Curator.”

Wilma cocked her head to one side and scrunched up her nose. “An a-sigh-what?”

“An assignment,” explained the great detective, hooking his thumbs into his waistcoat pockets. “It's like a project. But more official. The Curator is due here in a few hours and he's sent me a note asking for a written report that details what we have discovered so far: clues, information, and suspects, that sort of thing. Anyway . . . I am very busy and—”

“Is it a bit like when it was laundry day at the Institute and I had to write down how many pants went missing?” said Wilma, not wanting to leave.

Theodore blinked. “Not really,” he said after a short pause. “Although in terms of being a summary of what has happened, then I suppose the two are vaguely similar.”

“Very vaguely,” added the Inspector, bending down to give Pickle a pat.

“Oh, wait. You wrote about an assignment when you solved the Case of the Missing Wig,” blurted Wilma, reaching for her Clue Ring. “I think I've got it here . . .”

“Wilma,” said Theodore P. Goodman softly, getting out of his chair and walking toward the ten-year-old, “you must go home now.” The world-famous and very serious detective stood and looked down at the small but determined girl in front of him. Her eyes were pricking with tears and she was knotting the bottom of her pinafore with her hands. “You really do want to be a detective, don't you?” he asked, putting a hand on her shoulder.

“It's all I ever wanted, Mr. Goodman,” she whispered, looking up at her hero. “Not just to solve cases and everything. But also so I can work out where I've come from. And things . . .” Her voice trailed off.

“And your determination is to be admired, but this really is for the best,” Theodore said gruffly.

“Come, come,” said Inspector Lemone sadly, seeing Wilma's face. “Whenever I feel a few tears coming on I try gulping three times. Always seems to do the trick.”

“Well then, Wilma,” said Theodore, in an important voice, “let's shake hands and say good-bye.”

“Good-bye?” asked Wilma, but before she could quite take it all in, she felt Theodore's hand in hers and somehow she was leaving his study, possibly forever. Wilma couldn't believe what was happening and, because it really was all a bit too much, she gulped six times. (Just to make sure.)

D
ark corners should always be avoided, everyone knows that, and as Wilma and Pickle, miserable and crestfallen, trudged back up the steps of Howling Hall, there was one dark corner they would have done well to steer clear of. Mrs. Waldock, like a malevolent predator, was lying in wait.

With a heavy heart Wilma closed the front door behind her. Detective Goodman had been quite clear: She wasn't allowed to help with the case. At every turn she had failed to prove herself as a detective's apprentice. Taking off her raggedy cloth cap and pushing the hair from her eyes, she looked down at the luggage tag in her hand, the only clue to her past and one she was desperate to solve. “I
will
be a detective one day, Pickle,” she murmured. “I have to be. Mr. Goodman was right. I am very determined and maybe, if I . . .” But Wilma didn't have a chance to finish her thoughts. Suddenly, out from the shadow of the broken grandfather clock in the hallway, came a pair of fleshy, grasping hands. As her mistress grabbed her by the throat, Wilma let out a scream. “Wilma Tenderfoot,” hissed Mrs. Waldock, tightening her grip, “you have scampered at will once too often. The time has come for you to be punished with the worst chore imaginable.”

“But, Mrs. Waldock . . .” gasped Wilma, clutching at her mistress's hand. “I was just delivering your letter!”

“Too late for that!” shouted Mrs. Waldock, her cheeks wobbling with rage. “You will go into the sitting room and collect every single spider until you have enough to make me some spiderleg soup!” Wilma, tossed in the direction of the sitting room, stumbled to the floor, and as she scrabbled to her feet her precious luggage tag fell from her grasp.

“What's this?” barked Mrs. Waldock, picking it up.

“It's mine!” yelled Wilma. “Give it back!”

“Give it back?” shouted Mrs. Waldock, thumping Wilma on the back of the head. “No housegirl tells me what to do! I'm keeping it! Now get collecting! This is your last chance! And not one sound . . . or I shall give you the thrashing you deserve!”

 

Pickle, his tail firmly between his legs, crawled into the sitting room behind Wilma. “Well, this is a mess,” whispered Wilma, pinching her lips together bravely. “I'll have to get my luggage tag back. Maybe we can wait till she's asleep. Ugh!” she added, scrunching her face into a picture of disgust. “There are cobwebs everywhere. And I HATE spiders!”

Those of you who have tried to catch a spider will know that they are fiendishly quick, and as Wilma peered into revolting nooks and mildewed crannies, she had to conclude that having eight legs rather than two seemed to be giving the spiders the advantage. After an hour of trying to grab even one Wilma was sweating and exhausted. But at least it was keeping her mind off her horrible disappointments. As Wilma took a breather, Pickle, who had thrown in the occasional threatening bark (a contribution rendered useless by the fact that spiders are totally deaf) was bouncing around the room and sniffing, nose glued to the ground in the hope of rooting out more quarry. He had almost given up when suddenly a particularly fat and hairy spider came into his line of vision. His tail went up, his back became rigid, and with one, overenthusiastic pounce, he bounded into a pot stand, sending the plant and a framed photograph smashing to the floor. “Oh, Pickle, no!” Wilma cried out, clamping a hand to her mouth.

“What was that noise?” bellowed Mrs. Waldock, silhouetted in the doorway.

Wilma was already picking up the pieces of glass from the photo frame. She glanced at the picture in her trembling hands. It was of a man and glitzily dressed woman, cheek to cheek and laughing. Wilma squinted and held the photo up to look at it better. Could the woman be a slimmer, younger Mrs. Waldock? And who was the grinning fellow beside her? “I'm sorry, M-M-Mrs. Waldock,” she stuttered as her mistress loomed over her.

Wilma braced herself, expecting a beating, but Mrs. Waldock, seeing the picture in Wilma's hands, seemed, for a moment, to crumple. Some people spend their whole lives trying to forget, so when they are presented with the very thing they have been avoiding, the shock can be overwhelming. Wilma looked up. If the room hadn't been so dark she might have concluded that there were tears in her mistress's eyes, but surely that wasn't possible? “You will take this,” mumbled Mrs. Waldock, “and have it reframed immediately. Have you caught any spiders?”

“No, I . . .” began Wilma, but Pickle gave her a nudge with his cold nose. Under his paw there was one squashed spider. “What I mean to say is, I haven't caught one, but Pickle has.”

“Then you can make my soup on your return. Skip to it. We haven't got all day.” Mrs. Waldock handed Wilma back the broken frame and wandered away, muttering as she went. “Abandoned . . . all the money gone . . . said he'd come back . . .”

“What,” said Wilma, “was that about? If I was still being a detective, then I'd probably deduct that this man here,” she added, tapping the photo with a finger, “was a wrong'un of the highest order. Still. I'm not a detective now. I'm Mrs. Waldock's housegirl. For the time being anyway. Well done for catching the spider, Pickle. I'll put it in my pocket.” Wilma reached down and peeled the flattened spider from the bottom of Pickle's paw. Pinching it between her forefinger and thumb, and with something of a grimace, she held open her pinafore pocket to drop it in. “Pickle!” she yelled, looking into her pocket. “The dart thing! I've still got it! I know Mr. Goodman told me I wasn't to help him anymore, but I have to give him this! It could be a vital clue.”

 

“To date,” Theodore began, “we have no confirmed suspects. I'm awaiting test results from Dr. Kooks. I'm hoping the poison that killed Visser will lead us somewhere. In fact, I'm heading to the lab now. Perhaps you'd like to come with me?”

Theodore was standing at the gate of Clarissa Cottage. The Curator and his assistant, Miss Pagne, were sitting in a smart brown buggy outside.

“Not possible,” huffed the Curator, holding on to his cane with both hands. “Up to my eyes with whatnots and wherewithalls. That's why we can't stop. But what you're saying, Goodman, is that you know very little. This is not what I expect from a detective of your caliber. The Museum's reputation is at stake.”

“If anyone can solve this case, it's Theodore P. Goodman!” the Inspector blustered, coming down the path behind the world-famous detective.

“Now now, Inspector,” Theodore said, packing his pipe with some rosemary tobacco. “The Curator is within his rights to be anxious. But if we discover who killed Visser, I think we'll have our man.”

“Or woman,” said Miss Pagne, from behind the Curator's shoulder. She was wearing a tight, fitted purple dress with long, white starched cuffs and a plunging neckline that gathered itself into an ostentatious bow, at the center of which was a ruby brooch that matched her painted fingernails.

“Indeed,” said Theodore, momentarily forgetting about the packing of his pipe. “Although I would say it's unlikely.”

“Are you suggesting that women are incapable of great evil, Mr. Goodman?” oozed the assistant, slowly crossing her legs.

“Suddenly feeling a bit warm,” said the Inspector, fiddling with his collar. “I'll loosen my tie a bit.”

“On the contrary, Miss Pagne,” replied Theodore, paying no attention to his friend. “To underestimate any woman is to tread a path of peril.”

Miss Pagne stared at the detective and let a small, wry smile dance across her lips. “You're as perceptive as you are handsome, Mr. Goodman,” she purred.

“Jolly hot today,” coughed the Inspector. “Isn't it?”

“That'll do, Miss Pagne!” barked the Curator, giving the floor of the buggy a double thump with his cane. “This is all very disappointing. Still. Nothing to be done until you've made some progress. Double your efforts, Goodman! I expect nothing less! But I must warn you, if I don't see results soon I shall pass this matter to Captain Brock and the army.”