Wilma Tenderfoot: The Case of the Fatal Phantom (13 page)

Reaching into her pinafore pocket, Wilma pulled out her notebook and began to read. “I wrote this last night—using what I could remember reading about spooks that first day in the Hoo library.”

1. Summon the spook in question (nighttime is best).
   
2. If you have not already found it, ask it where the treasure is (be POLITE).
   
3. Put garlic on Belinda in case she’s gone vampire like that book in the library said can happen when mummies are around.
   
4. If Belinda goes zombie, stick something pointy in her brain.
   
5. Try and exercise the spook. Try sit-ups. And jumping jacks.
   

“I think that’s how it works. I definitely read you have to exercise people to get ghosts out.
Then once the spook is tired of exercising, it must come out of Belinda, or submit or something, and we can show it to Mr. Goodman. He’ll realize then that my hunchy detective apprentice’s instincts were right. Also, if Belinda really is smothered in ghost juice, then someone needs to help her. So seeing as we’re here, perhaps we should follow her and see if anything possessed happens. Just for a while.” Pickle blinked. He’d rather not. But a hound is at the mercy of his mistress. (Generally speaking, all boys have to do what girls want, really. It’s written in stone. Don’t fight it.)

They crept after the girl as she headed into the kitchens. Peeping around the door, Wilma could see Belinda standing with her back to them. She was bending over a plate and had a knife in her hand. Ushering Pickle in before her, Wilma caught sight of a large bunch of garlic hanging from the herb rack. Reaching for it, she draped it around Pickle’s neck: “Just in case Belinda’s gone vampire!”

At the sound of Wilma’s voice, Belinda spun
around, a dripping orange in her free hand. “Oh, hello. What are you doing here?” she asked, moving toward them. “None of the servants will come near me, so I’m making myself some orange peel teeth with my breakfast. They’re ever so funny. Look!” Belinda suddenly grinned hideously, revealing a row of orange fangs beneath her top lip.

Fighting the urge to scream, Wilma panicked and reached for an onion. “Oh no! She HAS gone vampire!” she yelled at Pickle. “I’ve run out of garlic! This will have to do! I’ll have to chuck it at her!”

With that, Wilma pulled back her arm and threw the onion at Belinda with all her might. “If she’s gone vampire,” Wilma shouted, “she’ll start melting or something!”

“What on earth are you…OW!” cried Belinda as the onion hit her in the eye. Half-blinded, she dropped the knife and orange and began to teeter toward Wilma and Pickle, one eye shut and arms held out in front of her.

“Oh no!” bellowed Wilma, frantically consulting
her notebook, which she’d grabbed from her pinafore pocket. “Now she’s gone a bit zombie! Don’t let her bite you, Pickle. And don’t bite her. It might go both ways. This is awful! My plan of action says the only way to stop a zombie is to stick something in its brain! But I’m not sure I can do that. Aaaaagh! She’s coming!”

Stumbling against the kitchen table, Belinda stubbed her toe. “Owwwwwwww!” she wailed, reeling backward and collapsing against a larder shelf, knocking a bowl of flour over herself. As she rose again, her face and hair were a ghastly white. Wilma grabbed two wooden spoons and, as Pickle barked encouragement, began to ward the now ghostly-looking Belinda off with them.

“It must be the spirit of Bludsten Blackheart!” Wilma shouted at Pickle over the racket. “I should commune with it immediately! Bludsten Blackheart, is that you? You must leave poor Belinda Blackheart immediately! Leave her, I say! But if you could tell us where the treasure is first, that would be good. Now do jumping jacks! Jumping jacks!”

Wilma poked Belinda in the back with her wooden spoons. “Quick, Pickle!” she yelled as she chased the limping Belinda around the kitchen. “Get ready to catch any spooky spirits that are thoroughly exercised!”

“What on EARTH is going on here?” said a voice behind them.

Wilma turned her head sharply. “Barbu D’Anvers!” she gasped, wooden spoons held aloft. “Oooh…umm…Mr. Bludsten!” she hissed back in Belinda’s direction. “That thing I asked you about…doesn’t matter now! Don’t say a word!”

It was the first time since the end of the Case of the Putrid Poison that Wilma had been properly face-to-face with the dreadful Barbu D’Anvers. It’s never pleasant encountering your deadliest enemy, especially one who has promised to kill you on several occasions, and at that moment Wilma was alone and outnumbered. He could kill her right here and now, and no one would be any the wiser. Pickle stepped in front of her, his teeth bared in a protective snarl.

“Oh no! It’s Goodman’s ghastly girl and her disgusting dog,” sneered Barbu, scowling at Wilma and Pickle. “Why he has you hanging around I shall never know. What are you up to? Terrorizing…Whatsernameagain?” he continued, throwing a quizzical glance in Janty’s direction.

“Belinda Blackheart,” whispered the boy, leaning in.

“Yes, her. If there’s any terrorizing to be done,
I
shall be the one to do it. So you can leave her alone. I have plans. And you won’t be scuppering them. In fact, think yourself lucky that I am on a tight schedule and don’t have the inclination to finish you off now—something I would
dearly
love to do. You’re on borrowed time, Wilma Tenderfoot. You
and
your revolting hound,” he added, waving his cane in Pickle’s direction. “Now then, Janty, back to the task at hand. What are we supposed to be doing?”

“Helping the lady in distress, master. Phase two.”

“Yes. Tully…help her.”

The henchman pushed past Wilma to pick Belinda up off the floor, where she had collapsed in floury exhaustion.

“That enough?” Barbu raised his eyebrow questioningly.

“According to the book, yes, master,” replied Janty, consulting the manual in his hands. “Although it does also say that you might like to offer the lady a cup of tea. To settle the nerves.”

“Let’s not go crazy.” The villain shrugged. “We have saved her from this revolting child. I think that’s plenty. Good. Right. Back to scouring those plans. Carry her out, Tully. As for you,” he said, turning to Wilma with a sneer, “don’t think I’ll be forgetting you, because I won’t.”

As Barbu and his gang swept Belinda from the room, Wilma, covered in flour dust and still holding the spoons, could only gape in astonishment. “Why is Barbu D’Anvers being nice to Belinda Blackheart?” she asked Pickle, who had decided to have a quick bark at the villain now he was gone. “He’s never nice to anyone. He’s up to something more rotten than just finding that
treasure, Pickle, mark my words. Unless he wants to cross-question Bludsten like we did? We’ll have to think about this properly. After we’ve got the skis. Come on.” Throwing the spoons down on the table, Wilma marched toward the door, still deep in thought. “It’s almost as if he’s in a romance. With Belinda Blackheart. But that
can’t
be right, surely? She’s about two feet taller than him for a start. The wedding portraits would look ridiculous.”

But Pickle didn’t have the answer to that. He was more worried about how he was going to get the smell of garlic out of his collar.

“And then Barbu came in and he was being all lovey-dovey. With Belinda Blackheart! What can it mean, Mr. Goodman?” asked Wilma, staring up at the great detective as she fastened her skis.

“What it always means where Barbu D’Anvers is concerned,” replied Theodore, pulling a fur deerstalker hat over his golden hair. “That bamboozles and tricks are on the menu. We must keep an eye on this. Foul play is afoot. But in the meantime, we should be off.”

“Now, stand still.” Wilma turned back to Pickle. “You’re the official expedition pack animal. That means you have to carry loads of equipment. According to my textbook, we’re going to need climbing ropes, grapple hooks, ice picks, water, fruit cake, tea flasks, extra socks, and something slippery in case of mechanical mishaps. I got this saddlebag from Portious. I’m going to tie that around you. There. And now I’ll pack everything into it. How’s that?” She stood back and looked at Pickle. His knees were trembling slightly with the extra weight. “Hmm. Perhaps we’ll leave the socks. Yes. That’s better.”

“A few more climbing ropes for you, Wilma,” said the detective, handing them over. “We’ll be facing a steep descent when we get to the gorge.” She took them and slung them over her shoulder. “This is a dangerous mission. I wonder if you should stay here, in fact.”

Wilma’s eyes widened. “But I’m the apprentice. It’s my job to go where you go. Unless …” She paused hopefully. “…unless you want me to stay here and do some Fatal Phantom investigating—if you’ve had a rethink about that at all …?
And I could follow Belinda Blackheart around—see if I can set off her possession again and—”

“Actually, I think you’re right, Wilma,” said Theodore hastily. “You should probably come with me after all. It might be…safer…for everyone. But stick as close as you can. Especially when we make our descent into the gorge.”

“Is now a good time to tell you I’m not awfully fond of heights?” asked Inspector Lemone, stepping out from the dressing room. Wilma looked at him. He was wearing soccer cleats, long socks, a pair of terribly tiny shorts, an oversized sweater, and a pith helmet. The Inspector looked a little embarrassed and cleared his throat. “Mrs. Speckle laid out my adventure outfit, so I have to wear it. Let’s say no more on the matter.”

Sometimes, when fellows have been blinded by the love bug, they find themselves forced into sticky corners. Poor Inspector Lemone was dizzy with adoration for Mr. Goodman’s irascible housekeeper, and given that this was the first time she had ever paid him any attention whatsoever, he couldn’t bear not to wear what she had
chosen for him, however…short. Never mind that the only reason Mrs. Speckle had waded in was that she was darned if a pair of flibbertigibbet housemaids were going to do what she quite determinedly regarded as
her
job.

“Are those shorts a bit…?” began Theodore, frowning.

“No more!” cried Inspector Lemone.

“Here you go, Pickle,” said Wilma, tying a small saucepan to the top of her beagle’s head over his woolly dog-duffel coat. “That’ll have to do as a hard hat. We don’t want you falling off anything and hurting yourself, do we?”

Pickle caught sight of himself in the mirror. He hadn’t thought his winter outfit could get any worse, but apparently it could. Much worse. At this rate he’d be happily throwing himself off any passing cliff, let alone falling off one.

A perilous gorge, a rogue phantom, and a dog in a saucepan. What can possibly go wrong?

“M
r. Goodman!” called Wilma, skiing skillfully to catch up with her mentor (she had done lots of skiing when in the Institute for Woeful Children, where it had been her job to water the cabbages, even in snowy weather). “I just saw something that might change your mind about spooks, especially at the Hoo. As we were leaving, Pickle was doubling back to demonstrate some ski basics to Inspector Lemone, and he spotted a set of footprints in the snow. They went right up to the wall of the house and then just disappeared. I tried to call you, but I think your earmuffs must be on too tight and you didn’t hear me.”

“Interesting,” said Theodore, stopping abruptly and looking down at his apprentice. “And you saw no footprints going away from the wall?”

“No, none,” said Wilma with a small shake of her head. “They just stopped. The only other thing was two round holes in the snow on either side of the last set of footprints. And that was it.”

“And where were these marks?”

Wilma pointed to the front of the house.

“The south side. Hmmm.”

“So they could be actual spook prints, couldn’t they, Mr. Goodman? Because only a spook can walk up to a wall and disappear. So now do you believe Blackheart Hoo is haunted?”

“I don’t, Wilma, but you obviously do. And you seem determined to convince me. So I’ll say this: If you CAN prove to me the existence of ghosts—with facts and solid clues that cannot be interpreted in any other way—well, I promise to be open-minded.”

That was all Wilma needed to hear. Her own special spook case was well and truly on.

“Mr. Goodman!” Another ski-wearing figure emerged from the swirl of snowflakes. It was Dr.
Flatelly. “Good morning!” As the group drew closer to him he shot the Inspector a puzzled glance. “Aren’t those shorts a bit…you know…?” Inspector Lemone bit his lip and looked away. The archaeologist shrugged, then turned to the most famous and serious detective. “I’m here as promised. Glad to be of help. Especially with the diary. What with it being so hard to decipher. For someone as young as Wilma, that is.”

Wilma’s eyes flashed with indignation. She might be small, but she was certainly determined, and it was her job to assist, not his.

Seeing that his apprentice was a little rattled, Mr. Goodman gave her a quick pat on her bobble-hatted head. “I should caution you, Dr. Flatelly,” he said with a grave look, “that our journey will be treacherous.” The wind howled through his mustache. “And not necessarily just because of the weather.”

“It’s true. We are constantly in scrapes,” added Wilma, trying to look official. “But we are trained professionals.” Theodore raised his eyebrows. “Well…Mr. Goodman and Inspector Lemone are. But I will be too one day. So will Pickle.”

“Not a problem,” replied Flatelly with a wave of his hand. “As a boy I often climbed the one small hill, so I’m used to a bit of rough and tumble. And as for anything more sinister, well, I am an archaeologist. I’m not uncomfortable with the strange or unexpected.”

“Then let’s be on our way,” said Theodore, handing Dr. Flatelly a length of climbing rope. “Onward to Drop Dead Gorge!”

Criminal Elements, as everybody knows, are a lazy bunch. If they can avoid hard work, they will, and as our intrepid team continued away from the Hoo, Barbu D’Anvers was watching from an upstairs window.

“There they go, master,” said Janty, peering through a telescope as the team trudged away through the snow. “Shouldn’t we be following them?”

“In this weather?” scoffed Barbu, snatching the telescope from the young boy. “My boots are the finest suede. They’d be positively ruined. No,” he added as he took a long look at the traveling party before slamming the telescope shut, “I think
it’s a perfectly brilliant plan to let Goodman do all the hard work for us. If he finds the treasure, we shall simply steal it. If he finds a clue, we shall let him lead us to it and then steal it. That’s a win-win. You should write that down, Janty—it’s entry-level being-evil stuff. Only an idiot would follow him in these conditions. Which is why I’m sending an idiot…Tully. Obviously.”