Wilma Tenderfoot: The Case of the Fatal Phantom (10 page)

Theodore nodded encouragingly as he reached for his pipe and began packing it with rosemary tobacco. “Exactly, Wilma. Since ghosts don’t exist, all those unexplained events could also suggest that somebody wishes to create the
illusion
of a haunting. Have you thought about that?”

“No, I haven’t,” chipped in Inspector Lemone
with a small shrug, walking into the room. “Haven’t thought about that at all. Ooh,” he added, giving the room a sniff. “Smells of cheese. Don’t suppose there is any? I’m a bit peckish.”

“No. It’s not cheese, just loads of stinky tennis shoes,” explained Wilma, continuing to point at her Clue Board. “I haven’t really thought about it, no, Mr. Goodman. Because it’s so unusual, it’s sort of hard to know what the case is.”

“As far as I am concerned,” explained Theodore patiently, “our case is to find out who is causing all this mischief. Somebody is deliberately setting out to scare people, and we need to put a stop to it. Everything to do with this case hinges on
why
these so-called hauntings are taking place. So let’s start with the basics, Wilma. Motives.”

Wilma screwed her face up in thought. “Well, obviously the main motive is the treasure. And the spookiness is doing quite a good job of making people not want to find it. In case it goes extra-spooky. So perhaps it’s someone who wants the treasure all to themselves. And people who want treasure are often people who need money.
And something I have noticed is that even though the Blackhearts have loads of money, they also sort of haven’t got any at all. And everything is a bit old-looking and shabby.”

Mr. Goodman nodded and lit his pipe. “Well observed, Wilma,” he said, taking a deep puff. “I think you might be right. And that means that each and every Hoo resident may be keen to increase their personal funds. What we’re looking for is anyone with a greater motive than the others. Perhaps someone has a debt, or plans that require a vast sum of money.”

“Oh, wait,” said Wilma, picking up some scruffy-looking white canvas sneakers that had faces drawn on the toes. “These are Molly and Polly,” she explained. “I ran out of balloons. I’m not sure if they have a debt or big plans, but they did look a bit shifty when Dr. Flatelly was talking about the treasure.”

“Everyone did,” Lemone blustered.

“Hmm,” pondered Mr. Goodman. “When I was asking Portious to send off those samples to Penbert, I did discover that Molly and Polly are
hoping to leave the Hoo and open a String Emporium. And not only that, but Portious is looking to retire soon. Both of these things require money.” He paused thoughtfully. “Now then, there is one thing missing on your Clue Board, and that’s a blueprint of the Hoo. I’ll stay here with Lemone and add our new suspects and motives to the board while you go to the map room and see what you can find. Off you go.”

As Wilma headed out of the boot room door, there was a sudden strange creak and a scrabbling sound, and she thought she saw a shadow disappearing down the darkened corridor, so she had to remind herself that ghosts just DID. NOT. EXIST! She had to tell herself she believed it too.

The map room was in the west wing of the Hoo on the second floor just past the kite closet. It was a large, dusty room flanked on one side by tall rectangular windows hung with heavy velvet curtains and on the other by shelves, and there was a smell of dampness as if the place needed
a good airing. Wilma knew that she was there to find the blueprints of the estate, but this was the first chance she’d had since lunch to sneak a look at Bludsten’s diary, and it might prove to be better than a map! She pulled a chair out from one of the room’s many long tables and took the diary from her pinafore pocket. The small, battered leather felt almost silky to the touch where the years had softened its once firm surface. Carefully, Wilma opened it. There, at the front, was the hand-drawn claw, then the rock pictures.

“Some of the pages are covered in writing,” Wilma whispered to Pickle under the table as she flicked through the front part of the diary, “but it’s almost impossible to read. It’s like a spider’s been dipped in ink and left to run riot.” She peered a little closer. “Hang on, what’s this?”

Wilma had found a page that was folded over on itself and sealed at both ends, making it a sort of envelope. “There’s some scraps of paper in here,” she mumbled, sliding them out with a finger. “Just squiggles with village names at the end of them. But why would they be kept specially?”
Wilma popped them back and continued flicking through. “There’s blank pages here and there as well. And symbols of some sort. And look at the page at the back. The handwriting’s gone all strange…‘He haunts me…Death…Murderer…He comes …’ My goodness! That sounds awful. And a bit cursed, if I’m honest. Even if we don’t believe in spooks. Can’t see anything obvious about where the treasure might be. But then, I suppose if you buried a treasure, you wouldn’t want it to be found easily, would you?”

Then, as she pushed back her chair, she heard a small noise behind her. She stopped and listened. “Victor,” she called out quietly, “is that you?” Nothing. The lamp on the reading table flickered. Wilma gulped and reached for Pickle’s paw. “There’s no such thing as ghosts,” she whispered. “There’s no such thing as ghosts …”

Pickle glanced up to see the petrified look on Wilma’s face. He gave a small snort. He hated spooks too, but he was going to have to be brave. The noise came again, this time a little louder, as if something was dragging itself across the
floor. Pickle, ears pricked, slowly slunk toward the sound, Wilma tiptoeing behind him. It came from the far end of the map room, where dim recesses hid largely forgotten documents. As he drew close to the darkened alcove, Pickle suddenly gave a deep growl, the hair on his back bristling. Wilma felt her heart thumping in her chest. But she was a detective’s apprentice! And in the Case of the Blown Nose, Mr. Goodman did multiple creepings in darkened circumstances! Ghosts or no ghosts, this could be the golden opportunity she’d been waiting for. Perhaps she and Pickle had caught the ghastly ghoul or frightful fake in the act of scrawling threats! Perhaps they could somehow apprehend it. With a small gulp and steeling her nerves, Wilma clamped her eyes shut and gathered every brave bone in her body, then shot quickly around the corner of the alcove, forcing her eyes open as she did so. She gasped. “Janty! What are you doing here?”

The boy scowled at her from under his heavy curls. “None of your business,” he snapped, picking up the papers that he had just dropped on the floor.

“I thought you were at the Institute for Woeful Children,” continued Wilma, bending down to help him. “You were sent there with Barbu at the end of the Case of the Putrid Poison. I hope it hasn’t been too awful. I know what a terrible place it can be. Hang on a minute,” she added, realizing what they were gathering up from the floor, “these are maps of Blackheart Hoo! What would you be wanting with these?”

Janty snatched the drawings from her hands. “Like I said,” he replied curtly, “keep your nose out. My master and I are here to claim a debt, and we shall be staying until we get it!”

Wilma’s eyes widened. “Barbu D’Anvers is here? At Blackheart Hoo? And what debt?” she added, remembering her earlier conversation with Mr. Goodman.

“Tarquin Blackheart’s,” answered the boy crossly. “My master beat him at cards yesterday and he owes us a lot of money. Not just us, according to the casino. He hasn’t got it, of course, so we’re taking it by other methods.”

“Tarquin gambles and owes lots of money?”
pondered Wilma, blinking. “Goodness. That shoves him right up the Likely Suspects list, what with him being desperate and everything. Hang on!” she gasped, the penny dropping. “Other methods? Barbu’s here to find the missing treasure, isn’t he? Of course he is! Finders Keepers means whoever gets to it first has sole claim! And if he finds it he’ll be able to buy back Rascal Rock and carry on his dastardly deeds! Janty, you must stop helping him! Why don’t you give me the plans and help us instead?” She put a warm hand on his arm pleadingly.

Janty paused. For a moment it seemed as if he was about to say something, but then he shook his head vehemently. “You still don’t get it, do you?” He pushed her hand away and shoved past her with the maps in his arms. “I LIKE working for Barbu D’Anvers. I LIKE being bad. Like…like my dad was. But then, I don’t expect you to understand, what with you being a
girl.
”

Wilma’s eyes narrowed as she followed him. “There is nothing wrong with being a girl, Janty. I can do anything and everything that you can. And
I’ll tell you this: I know the difference between right and wrong. The course you’re taking is a path to ruin. No good will come of it.” Pickle grumbled in agreement.

Janty stared back at her one last time. “At least the path to ruin is never dull,” he muttered. “Now leave me alone.”

Wilma watched regretfully as the boy stormed from the library. This was a worrying state of affairs. Not only was Barbu D’Anvers somewhere on the estate, but he was now a serious threat to Mr. Goodman’s investigations, and even worse, Janty had beaten Wilma to the blueprints. If only she had done what she’d been asked to do instead of concentrating on impressing Mr. Goodman, then she might not be in such a sticky mess. Again. That was two Golden Rules—following orders and NOT mucking things up spectacularly—broken in one! Wilma screwed her face up in thought. “Well, we did get a massive new clue about Tarquin Blackheart and the debt,” she said. “And I’ve got the diary—even if I don’t know what to do with it. And it’s up to us to warn Mr.
Goodman about Barbu D’Anvers! Maybe those things will make up for the rubbishy bits. Come on, Pickle. We need to get a move on.”

“Stuck here?” wailed Inspector Lemone, pacing around the drawing room. “I knew it! We shouldn’t have come! And now we’re trapped!”

“Hopefully it won’t be for long, Inspector,” said Theodore with a small sigh. “But there’ll be no getting back to Clarissa Cottage tonight. Not in this weather.”

“Mr. Goodman!” yelled Wilma, rushing into the room, Pickle on her heels. “Terrible news. Barbu D’Anvers is here with Janty. And guess what? They’re after the treasure! They’ve just arrived, so I don’t think THEY’RE the pretend ghosts, but nonetheless …”

A deep frown set into the detective’s face. “Are you quite sure, Wilma? Nobody has mentioned him being here.”

“I just saw Janty in the map room,” she panted. “He said they’re here to collect a debt. Apparently Tarquin owes him loads of money.”

“Is that so?” said Theodore, reaching for his notebook. “How interesting.”

“And Janty took the plans of the estate you asked me to fetch,” Wilma added quickly. “He beat me to them, Mr. Goodman. I’m very sorry.”

Theodore let out a small exasperated groan and rested his hand on the mantelpiece above the fire, staring thoughtfully into the flames. “All right,” he said eventually, looking back up. “This changes everything. It is imperative that we find that treasure before Barbu D’Anvers. We can worry about the whos, whys, and wherefores after. The game is on, Wilma. The game is on!”

Indeed it is. But WHO will get to the treasure first?

“Y
es. The presence of Barbu D’Anvers,” re-peated Theodore, “has made finding the treasure our top priority. You can write that down in your notebook if you like, Wilma.”

Wilma beamed and made a quick scribble. “This is like when you solved the Case of the Dodgy Duck. Do you remember? Barbu turned up then too, didn’t he? Disguised as a chicken.”

“He did, yes,” answered Theodore, twitching his mustache. “But back to this case—without those plans we are at a disadvantage.”

Wilma’s eyes flashed. “The thing is, Mr. Goodman,”
she began, reaching into her pocket, “I have this. It’s Bludsten Blackheart’s diary.”

The great detective dashed to her side. “Well done, Wilma. But where did you find it?”

“In the library. Vic…I mean, I…It’s very hard to read…it’s full of funny symbols and pictures, but I did find these …” Opening the diary, Wilma thumbed her way to the page that was folded over and sealed at the top and bottom. Inside the improvised envelope were the three pieces of paper. Wilma hopped down from the sofa and laid them out on the floor. “The lines on the papers just look like random squiggles, but I think what you might call a Hunchy Instinct tells me Bludsten must have made them for something. And look—Cooper village names as well.”

Mr. Goodman bent over to study the papers. “Interesting,” he murmured. “I wonder…if these squiggles are routes.”

“Like on a map? Do you think it’s anything to do with the treasure?”

“Yes. If we plotted these routes over an old
map of Cooper, we might have ourselves a clue.” Theodore nodded. “Good work, Wilma.”

Wilma beamed. She’d gotten something right at last.

“What we need now,” continued Theodore, “is a map of Cooper that was drawn in the time of Bludsten Blackheart. Wilma, Inspector Lemone, we’re going to see Dr. Flatelly. We shall need snowshoes. Can you find Portious and see if he has some we can use, please, Wilma?”

“Now then, is everyone ready?” Twenty minutes later, the great detective brushed down his mustache and straightened up from a final fiddle with his shoes.

Inspector Lemone, trussed to within an inch of his life in winter coats, nodded. “Ready as ever!” he shouted through three scarves.

“I know they’re for table tennis, but they’re going to have to do, Pickle,” said Wilma, tying the small battered paddles to her despairing hound’s feet. “Portious didn’t have snowshoes small enough for you. And I can’t carry you
all the way to Dr. Flatelly’s office. And he only had two, so I’ll put this tea strainer and cheese grater on your front paws. How’s that?” Wilma stood back and admired her makeshift weather gear for dogs. Pickle gazed up at her with the sort of woebegone expression of defeat that only a beagle can muster. He looked like an idiot and he knew it.

“Good,” said Theodore. “This shouldn’t take long. Dr. Flatelly’s temporary office is only a short walk from the main house. We need to take the path that goes around the ornamental gardens.”

“But where is the path?” asked Inspector Lemone, shielding his eyes from the onslaught of snow as they stepped out of the door. “Can barely see a thing. Hang on …” he added, peering into the distance. “Is that someone coming?”