Wilma Tenderfoot: The Case of the Fatal Phantom (17 page)

Once Wilma had defrosted enough to turn her head again, she looked around the kitchen. She’d quite like to put her hands around something hot, like a just boiled kettle or a steaming potato. Above her, hanging next to Pickle, there was a large square of cloth. She reached up and touched it. It was warm from the fire. Maybe she could wrap her hands in it for a few minutes until the blood started pumping again? She
slipped the cloth from the line and began to wrap it about her frozen fingers. The fabric felt warm and toasty, and as life flooded back into her ice-battered hands, she looked down and noticed that there was a mark stamped into one corner of the rag. Hang on—she’d seen that mark before. On the muslin that she was wrapped in when she was left on the orphanage doorstep as a baby! “Mrs. Moggins!” she cried excitedly, leaping from her chair. “This cloth—where did it come from?”

Mrs. Moggins, who was still glaring at Mrs. Speckle, gave the cloth a quick glance. “That old thing? That’s what the hams come wrapped in. I wash them out and dry them. They make good tea cloths.”

“Yes,” urged Wilma, “but where do you buy the ham?”

“From the butcher’s over in Arewenearly-thereyet,” the cook replied with a shrug.

Wilma stumbled backward into her chair again, her mouth agape. “Mr. Goodman,” she whispered, staring at the crest of the crossed lamb chops. “Look at that! It’s the same mark as
the one on my missing relative clue. Oh my! Do you think I might have found my missing relative? A butcher?”

The great and serious detective, who was still thawing his backside in the oven, frowned a little. “Take care, Wilma,” he warned softly. “It’s certainly an excellent new clue and you should definitely follow it up as soon as you can, but remember what I told you about speculating. It’s best not to get your hopes up. I suspect you will need many more clues before your particular mystery is solved. And besides, you still have to speak to Kite Lambard, remember?”

Wilma’s eyes widened. “How could I forget, Mr. Goodman? It’s the one thing I am most looking forward to! Even more than Brackle Day!” What a wonderful surprise! Thoughts of her own mystery were never far from Wilma’s mind, and the unexpected discovery of an enormous new clue thrilled her to the core. What with everything that was happening at the Hoo, she hadn’t given Miss Lambard’s impending arrival much thought, but this sudden find had jolted her back
to her own reality. In a matter of days, Wilma might have the answers she’d been looking for.

“So you made it back?” came a voice from the doorway. “Thought you might be goners. Flatelly came back, heck of a state, had to be sedated, mumbling something about a phantom and a cherub. Said you were all trapped. Was going to rustle up a rescue committee, of course,” Lord Blackheart added, “but it turned out you’d taken all the skis. According to Portious.”

“Dr. Flatelly’s here?” said Wilma, smiling. “So the Phantom didn’t kill him? Well, thank goodness,” she added with a relieved sigh. “That would have been terrible and sad and I would have been up to my eyes in paperwork.”

“Thank you, Wilma,” interrupted Theodore. “Where is Dr. Flatelly now, Lord Blackheart?”

“I left him with Tarquin,” Blackheart explained. “He was gibbering about some painting of a cherub. Only cherub I know of around here is the big stone one in the chapel opposite the family pew.”

“Of course. The cherry and the maggot-like
thing on the wall in the mine …” mused Mr. Goodman. Then, seeing Wilma’s bemused look, he continued. “Those pictures—one was of a cherry, the other of a grub. And what if the strange symbol between them meant ‘to merge’? What do you get if you mix a cherry and a grub, Wilma?”

“A disgusting mouthful of grossness?”

“A cher-ub,” the detective exclaimed, starting for the door. “If that isn’t a clue, I don’t know what is.”

“So you think the cherub in the chapel is the one that’s in the picture, Mr. Goodman?” yelled Wilma, leaping from her chair and unhooking Pickle from the drying line. “And it’s a clue as to where the missing treasure is?”

The great detective nodded, wiggling his mustache to free it of the last chips of ice. “Lemone! Look sharp! To the chapel!”

Wilma frowned as she followed her mentor to the door. “Dr. Flatelly must have used Bludsten’s diary key to work it out, but he shouldn’t have told Tarquin all those clues, should he, Mr.
Goodman? Because proper detectives always save what they’re thinking till last—Top Tip for Detecting number nine. This is what happens when untrained people try and go detective. He’s not the apprentice. I am. Come on, Inspector Lemone!”

Inspector Lemone, who was only halfway through the fish tart Mrs. Speckle had given him and had yet to find himself a pair of trousers, looked up and gulped as he watched his companions racing out through the kitchen door. “Sometimes,” he mumbled as he stuffed the tart into a pocket and chased after them, “I can’t help thinking we’ve got our priorities all wrong in this job. Never mind top tip number nine, what about number ten—never go detecting on an empty stomach, eh?”

The family chapel was in the west wing of Blackheart Hoo. The storm clouds that had hung so low were starting to lift, and for the first time in days, blue sky and a bright winter sunshine began to appear, sending shafts of light through the chapel’s stained-glass windows. Wilma
glanced up. The decorated panes were filled with familiar Brackle Day images: the discovery of the first Brackle Bush, the fateful encounter between Melingerra Maffling and Stavier Cranktop, and the moment the island was divided between the Lowside and the Farside forever—all were beautifully rendered. But there was something even more startling to draw the group’s attention—in a far corner Tarquin was attacking the church floor with a pickaxe.

“Aaaarrrgh!” he yelled, tossing the heavy tool to one side and running a frustrated hand through his hair. “Nothing here! Where is it? WHERE IS IT?” Suddenly realizing he was not alone, Tarquin froze. “Oh, it’s you. I was just…trying to assist Dr. Flatelly.” He waved his hand in the direction of the stone cherub that looked down on the very spot he’d been demolishing. “And find the treasure for Father, of course.”

Theodore fixed him with a penetrating stare. “Have you told Barbu D’Anvers about the cherub yet?” he asked in a low tone.

“No,” replied Tarquin sheepishly.

Wilma looked down at the heap of broken tiles on the floor and peered into the empty hole beneath them, Pickle sniffing at it from behind her legs. “Nothing buried there, then,” she said, getting her apprentice’s notebook from her pocket. “This looks like it may require some wonky thinking, Mr. Goodman,” she added, tapping a pencil against her bottom lip. “And as for you …” She turned toward Tarquin, trying to look VERY serious. “If I hadn’t seen the Fatal Phantom with my own eyes, twice, this would push you RIGHT up my Likely Suspects list. In debt, running off, digging things up—it doesn’t look good. Doesn’t look good AT ALL.”

“Thank you, Wilma.” Theodore reached for his magnifying glass. “And this is the only cherub on the estate?” he asked the Blackheart boy as he took a closer look at the statue.

“As far as I know.” Tarquin nodded, slumping down onto a wooden pew. “Perhaps this treasure thing is just a wild-goose chase.”

“Oh, I don’t know about that,” muttered the detective, giving the cherub’s wing a little rub.
“Actually, I think we’re dealing with an old-fashioned treasure hunt, odd as that seems. And here we have our next clue, there, on the edge of the cherub’s wing. A small engraving showing a question mark like the one on the mine wall, then an equals symbol and a picture of some coins and a key with that same ‘merge’ sign. So if we apply the same logic as to the cherub clue—‘coins’ plus ‘key’ doesn’t mean much, but what about ‘money’ plus ‘key,’ Wilma?”

“A monkey, Mr. Goodman!” Wilma scribbled frantically in her pad as she spoke.

“That’s what we’re looking for next. And I’d say, on the basis of the mine wall, that it will lead us to the two map scrolls it pictured—and they’ll give us the treasure location. If it really exists.”

“Makes my head hurt,” Inspector Lemone grumbled, “but good work, Goodman!”

“What was that?” asked a tired voice from behind them. “A monkey? Heard you’d made it out. Thank goodness! I hit my head when that terrible thing came at me. Then it must have left me for dead. I came around a while later. I called
out for you, but perhaps the walls were too thick. I was so worried you were all goners …”

Everyone turned to see Dr. Flatelly making his way toward them.

“I’m ever so glad you weren’t killed, Doctor,” said Wilma.

“Why, thank you.” Irascimus smiled. “That’s most kind.”

“Because you’ve still got Bludsten’s diary,” she continued, holding her hand out. “And it’s official evidence.”

“Oh.” The archaeologist blinked, a little taken aback. “Well, I’m happy to hang on to it for further analysis, if that’s helpful.”

Wilma’s upturned palm remained steadfastly thrust toward him. “No, thank you. You’re not the apprentice detective. I am.”

“You’d better let her have it, Dr. Flatelly,” interjected Theodore, tucking his magnifying glass back into his waistcoat. “Wilma is nothing if not determined.”

“Even if I am small to look at,” agreed Wilma.

Dr. Flatelly pulled the diary reluctantly from
the inside of his overcoat. “As you wish…there. Now then, Mr. Goodman, what’s this about a monkey?”

“Perhaps Tarquin knows where it…Oh!” Wilma looked about her. “He’s gone.”

“Must have sneaked off!” blustered Inspector Lemone, spinning about to see if he could catch a glimpse of him. “Dang it all, Goodman! That feels slippery to me!”

“Quickly,” urged Theodore, heading for the doorway. “We must seek Lord Blackheart’s counsel immediately. He may be able to tell us the location of the monkey!”

Tarquin was creeping silently along an upstairs corridor toward the small reading room on the second floor. The monkey, he was positive, was a small bronze statue that sat on a decorative drinks table to the left of the fireplace. Hearing a noise, he stopped where he was and slipped into a dark recess so as not to be discovered. Carefully, he peered out and saw Molly and Polly leaving the reading room. “What’re they up to?” Tarquin said, frowning. “Oh, of course—setting
out Father’s midday cocoa as usual,” he realized. “Which means Father’s due here any moment. I’ve got to act fast.”

As soon as the maids had disappeared into the gloom of the corridor, Tarquin slipped from his hiding place and into the reading room. For some reason the curtains were drawn and the lamps unlit, so the only light emanated from a small fire in the grate. Tarquin shivered. Why was it so cold in here even with the fire lit? And why did he have a funny feeling that he was not alone? With his eyes still adjusting to the dim light, he told himself he was imagining things and stumbled across to the ornate stand next to the hearth, checking over his shoulder the whole way. The table was bare.

“Where’s the monkey?” Tarquin yelled, slamming his fist down. “Who has taken it?”

Suddenly, from above, there came a short, sharp cracking sound and Tarquin looked up to see a heavy marble bust that had been standing on a nearby pedestal come crashing down toward him. He leaped backward just in time and the
bust shattered over the fireside table and chair. It had missed him by inches. He scrabbled to his feet, wild-eyed and terrified. “What is this?” he screamed. “Hocus-pocus? Well, you won’t scare me, Fatal Phantom! You won’t, I tell you!” And with that he made a mad dash for the door, fumbled with the handle, and ran for his life.

Somewhere, in the shadows, a dark form stirred …

Frightened now? You
should
be.

T
hings were not progressing quickly enough for Barbu D’Anvers. The Blackhearts were still the picture of health and they were no nearer finding the treasure. It wasn’t all bad news, though.

“That’s quite a reasonable haul.” Barbu smirked, tossing a candlestick into the large wooden crate in Tully’s arms. “Good work, Janty. Your light fingers should bring us a tidy sum. Take it down to Arewenearlythereyet market—it’s on today and not far from here. You can unload the stuff there. Though be careful the deadly dull Goodman doesn’t catch you. You know what he’s like about trying to sell things that aren’t yours. So boring.”

“Yes, master.” The young boy nodded, taking the box from the henchman.

“Tully, I want you to continue your sneaky spying on Goody Two-Shoes. And do try and
keep up
this time. Plus, remember your dodgy demises duty,” Barbu went on.

Tully blinked. “Dodgy what?”

“Demises!” yelled Barbu, rapping him on the forehead with the end of his cane. “Assassinations! Slaughters! And general carnage! In short, bump off the Blackhearts! I don’t care how we do it—the fortune SHALL be mine!”

“Yes, Mr. Barbu.” Tully sniffed, rubbing his eyebrow. “Though, that really hurt.”

Barbu stared at him with incredulity. “Look at your contract!” he yelled, producing Tully’s Contract of Employment from his inside coat pocket. “Subsection B! ‘The henchman will receive raps to the head from time to time. These may
smart
.’ It’s there in black and white! I’m perfectly within my rights. End of discussion.”

Tully pouted.