Wilma Tenderfoot: The Case of the Fatal Phantom (11 page)

Wilma turned and looked. A hunched figure was trudging toward them carrying what looked to be a tray. “It can’t be!” she gasped, eyes widening.

The woolly figure, covered in snow, shoved its second bobble hat upward. “Mr. Goodman,”
began the woman revealed beneath, narrowly avoiding skidding over in her knitted Wellingtons, “I thought I’d bring you some peppermint tea and a few corn crumbles. I’ve kept the tea in a hot-water bottle, so it should be fine. The corn crumbles have frozen solid on the way here, but stick them in your armpits and they’ll be edible again in about half an hour.”

“Mrs. Speckle,” said an appalled Theodore, extending a chivalrous arm to stop her from slipping again. “You didn’t need to come. The weather is atrocious.”

“All the same,” wheezed the no-nonsense housekeeper, “your mid-afternoon snacks are my responsibility, and I’ll not have anyone else giving you substandard biscuits.”

Inspector Lemone, who as we all know was always romantically overwhelmed in Mrs. Speckle’s presence, gulped and took one of the biscuits from the ice-covered tray. Still staring at her, and without thinking, he put the rock-solid corn crumble to his lips and bit down. His face contorted. “Think I’ve broken a tooth,” he
whimpered. “And the biscuit’s stuck to my lip,” he added, giving it a tug to no avail. “Can’t seem to get it off.”

“You shall have to stay at the Hoo until this weather improves,” said Mr. Goodman as he helped his housekeeper up the icy stone steps. “I’m sure Mrs. Moggins the cook can accommodate you.”

“Mrs. Moggins?” Mrs. Speckle snapped. “
Miranda
Moggins? She can’t even make a decent pea soup! And her corn crumbles! Well, the less said about
them
the better. Thank goodness I’m here. This is more serious than I thought.” Inspector Lemone, biscuit still stuck to his bottom lip, watched awestruck as Mrs. Speckle slid sideways through the front doors of the Hoo. She had come to save him. He just
knew
it.

The walk to Irascimus Flatelly’s shack was a struggle despite its short distance. The wind was howling and the snow was still falling in thick, soft flakes. As they finally stood at his door untying their snowshoes, Wilma stared upward. The
sky was heavy and low. She shivered. There were so many things to think about: the mummy, the treasure, the fake spook and psychic, and now Barbu, up to no good as usual, and yet…She felt as if there was something more. Something obvious that she wasn’t putting her finger on. This was what her textbook meant about Hunchy Instincts, she reminded herself. It was all very well having them, of course, but no good at all if you couldn’t figure out what they were. As it was, it felt more like a mild case of indigestion than anything else. But one day, Wilma reasoned, she’d get to the bottom of her Hunchy Instinct. Until then, she’d just have to keep burping.

Dr. Flatelly’s office was a jumble of archaeological flotsam. Old bones and broken bits of pottery were scattered across every surface, tall umbrella stands stood packed with rolled-up parchments, maps lay in heaps, and on the wall, much to Pickle’s alarm, there hung a skeleton in full dinner dress and top hat.

Irascimus was on his hands and knees surrounded by open books and scattered documents,
and as Theodore shook the snow from his overcoat, Wilma couldn’t help but notice that the archaeologist looked a little put out.

“Mr. Goodman,” he said, standing up, “I wasn’t expecting you. Sorry…I’ve moved everything from my usual office on the other side of the island up here to the estate…wasn’t sure what I’d need so I brought it all…er…everything’s a bit of a jumble…I’ve been throwing myself into my work rather …”

“So I can see,” said Theodore, bending down to pick up a plate and cup that were on the floor by his feet. “Here,” he added, handing them to Irascimus. “Best to put these somewhere they won’t get broken.”

“Yes,” answered the archaeologist, seeming a little rattled. He took the dirty crockery and placed it on the table, where there was another plate and cup and a ketchup bottle. “Anyway, what can I do for you?”

“I found Bludsten Blackheart’s diary!” Wilma blurted out. Theodore shot her one of his more serious glances.

Dr. Flatelly’s eyes widened. “Really?” he spluttered excitedly. “Where is it? Can I see?”

Wilma reached into her pinafore pocket and pulled out the battered red leather-bound book. “I can show it to you,” she said, assuming a very serious tone, “but it is an official clue. In an official case. So I’ll just keep one hand on it at all times, if that’s all right.”

“What we need,” interjected Mr. Goodman, “is an old map of Cooper. One that was made during Bludsten’s time. We have found some reference points in the diary and have a hunch about them.”

Irascimus blinked and looked up from the diary, which he had been frantically flicking through while Wilma hovered possessively. “Old map?” he muttered. “Yes. Sure there’s something here somewhere.” He looked around him. “Sorry, place is rather a mess. Moved things about. Not quite sure …”

“Might it be in that tall basket that’s got MAPS written on it?” asked Wilma, pointing toward a wicker bin stuffed with rolls of dusty-looking paper.

“Well spotted, Wilma!” said Theodore, twiddling the magnifying glass that hung from his waistcoat pocket.

“Silly me.” Irascimus laughed a little nervously. “What with all this recent excitement, I’m forgetting the whats and wherefores! Right, then,” he declared, extracting a handful of maps. “Let’s have a look, shall we?”

Inspector Lemone helped clear a space on the large wooden table in the center of the room so that the maps could be unrolled and laid out. Flatelly frowned at him. “You seem to have a biscuit stuck to your bottom lip, Inspector,” he said, pointing.

“Yes,” mumbled Lemone, looking a little embarrassed. “I know.”

Wilma, Bludsten’s diary still in hand, moved a wooden stool over to the table and climbed up onto it so that she could see properly. Theodore and Irascimus were flicking through the large, brittle-edged parchments, discarding those that weren’t what they were looking for. Gentlemen love maps. They can stare at them for hours. If ever you want a grown-up man to be quiet, give him a map. You won’t hear another peep. This is
why men often put maps in bathrooms. They’re not washing when in there. They’re just staring at the maps. Ridiculous!

“Ah-ha!” said Irascimus as they finally unfolded an ancient-looking map of massive proportions. “This looks like the thing. We need something heavy to hold down one edge.”

Thinking quickly, Wilma hopped down from her stool and lifted Pickle onto the table.

Irascimus stared at the bedraggled hound. “Is that a tea strainer on his foot?”

“Oops! I forgot to take his snow gear off when we got here. Sorry, Pickle,” Wilma said.

Pickle sighed. He liked to think of himself as a noble hound, brimful of destiny and dignified deeds. But here he was, soaked to the skin in his snow-covered knitted duffel coat, ears pinned back with pegs, booted into all manner of kitchen implements and being used as an oversized paperweight. This wasn’t how he thought his life would turn out. It really wasn’t.

“Wilma,” said Theodore, having a quick look at the map through his magnifying glass, “get out those reference points, would you? Dr. Flatelly,
we’re going to need a ruler, as long as you can find, and a pencil.”

Wilma leaned forward onto the table and, resting on her elbows, opened up Bludsten’s diary to the page that was doubled over. Pulling out the three scraps of paper hidden inside, she unfolded them and began to read. “The first one says That Place Under There to That Place Over There.”

“Here you go, Goodman,” chipped in Inspector Lemone, handing the great detective the archaeologist’s ruler. “We couldn’t find a pencil, but I have got this red crayon in my top pocket.”

The detective gave his friend a quizzical look.

“I was making Mrs. Speckle a Brackle Day card…ahem! Well, never mind that now. Here you are.”

Theodore took the implements and laying the ruler down on the map, drew a fine line between the two reference points. “Next one please, Wilma.”

“Beach to Measly Down,” replied Wilma, reading from the second piece of paper.

Theodore drew again. “And the last, thank you.”

“Scraggy Point to Hare Forest, Mr. Goodman. That’s it.”

Wilma put the papers away, closed the diary, and lifted herself up so that she could see better. As Theodore drew the last mark it was quite clear that the three lines had created one small triangle on the map. “Drop Dead Gorge!” she whispered breathlessly as she realized what the triangle surrounded.

“Interesting,” mumbled Irascimus. “Almost inaccessible, grisly place. I wonder…Hang on a minute. I was looking at something that mentioned Drop Dead Gorge before you arrived …” He turned and shoveled through a mound of papers on a sideboard. “Yes. Here we are. An invoice for a box of dynamite to be delivered to Drop Dead Gorge over a century ago. It must be connected! It must be the location of Bludsten’s hidden gold mine!”

Theodore straightened up. “One thing’s for sure: However deathly a place, we shall have to investigate. The treasure is unlikely to be hidden there, but it may yield more clues.”

“And if by chance the treasure
is
there,” whispered Inspector Lemone, “then the Fatal Phantom won’t be far away …”

Pickle shifted uneasily. He hoped not. He REALLY did.

Mr. Goodman took out his pocket watch and looked at it. “This is all very promising, but I fear it’s too late to do anything further today. We’ll return to the Hoo and report to Lord Blackheart. Then I suggest we make a start at first light. Will you be returning to the house with us, Dr. Flatelly?”

“No,” the archaeologist replied, looking fired up. “I think my time will be best spent here. See if I can find out anything more about the mine and that key. But I shall join you in the morning, if I may. I’m sure I can be of assistance.”

“Then it is agreed,” said Theodore with a nod. “Early tomorrow!”

Wilma said nothing, but that Hunchy Instinct feeling was coming back again. What did it mean? And why couldn’t she work it out? She looked up from the ancient map and did a massive belch. Everyone turned and looked at her. “Sorry,” she said, with a small, embarrassed grin. “My instincts keep repeating on me.”

D
usk was drawing in and as Mr. Goodman and his companions arrived back at the Hoo, a strange, ethereal light bathed the main house. “Looks like a good evening for spooks,” Wilma whispered to her shuddering hound. “If they existed, of course.”

Pickle trembled and looked around anxiously.

The house was strangely dark as they entered. The gas lights that normally fizzed through the gloom were all extinguished. “Funny,” commented Inspector Lemone. “Wh-wh-what’s going on?”

Wilma, hearing footsteps coming toward them, spun in the direction of the sound and was startled to see the face of Portious looming over her, illuminated by a single candle. “I’m afraid the weather has knocked out our gas supply,” he explained, his features exaggerated in the flickering beam. “Everyone is gathered in the upper sitting room. We have lit candles and Miss Daise is taking the opportunity to have a séance.” Wilma and Inspector Lemone looked blank. “In an attempt to summon the dead,” Portious added.

“Oooh,” moaned Inspector Lemone anxiously. “Shall I go back to Flatelly’s? He said he had work to do. He might need a hand.”

“No,” replied Theodore, glancing up the large staircase. “I need you with me, Inspector. I think this is something we ought to see.” The butler led the way.

Wilma grinned with glee. A séance! She’d read about them. They were like party invites for spirits! Or fake ones, at least. Surely this would be the moment Mr. Goodman would be proved right—the séance would either be a flop because
there were no ghosts, or whoever was faking it was bound to get caught. With Mr. Goodman in the room together with an expert apprentice detective like her…well, it was inevitable.

The upper sitting room was a small, dark place. As usual in the Hoo, heavy velvet curtains were drawn across every window and half-burned candles in dusty glass globes were dotted about. Nobody was speaking, and the eerie mood sent a chill down Wilma’s spine. She shivered a little, despite her bravado. To distract herself, she looked around. The center of the space was dominated by a large circular wooden table around which sat Lord and Lady Blackheart, Tarquin, and Fenomina Daise. The psychic was wearing a dramatic flowing gown covered in stars (with matching eye patch) and had her one good eye closed while pinching the top of her nose. Between Tarquin and Fenomina, there was an empty chair. Wilma glanced quickly around the room. All the servants were there. Mrs. Moggins was standing wringing the hem of her apron anxiously, Portious was picking something from a fingernail in
front of a half-decorated Brackle Bush, and Molly and Polly were huddled together in a corner. Wilma noticed that they were whispering and pointing in the direction of a small writing desk with a lock on it. There was no sign of Belinda or the ghastly Barbu D’Anvers and his gang. Nor could Wilma see any sign of Victor.

A knitted figure pushed her way through the assembled company. It was Mrs. Speckle and she was carrying her trusty tray. “Mr. Goodman,” she puffed, “I took the liberty of bringing a few tea things to the séance for you. I knew you’d be chilled after your walk.”

“There are sufficient tea things already laid out,” hissed the cook, Mrs. Moggins, who was hard on her heels.

“I’m happy to eat both kinds of biscuits,” proffered Inspector Lemone in a conciliatory fashion.

Mrs. Speckle shot him a deadly glance. “You’ll do no such thing!” she barked. “You’ll eat my corn crumbles or nothing!”

“Oh!” replied Inspector Lemone, startled. “I mean to say …” He gulped and ran a finger
around the inside if his collar as he tried to back away slowly. Just then the door behind them all opened to reveal Belinda, flanked by Barbu D’Anvers and Janty. It was the first time Wilma had seen Barbu since the end of their last case, and he looked as dastardly as ever.

Lord Blackheart stood up. “Who in the blue blazes are you?” he demanded of the diminutive villain.