Wilma Tenderfoot: The Case of the Fatal Phantom (18 page)

“Gone?” boomed Lord Blackheart, staring at his squirming son. “What do you mean it’s gone?”

“The monkey just isn’t there, Father,” answered Tarquin nervously.

“And what’s all this Mr. Goodman tells me about you sneaking off? Trying to pull a fast one, are you? Take the treasure for yourself so you can gamble that away too?”

Tarquin gulped. “No…I mean …”

“Lord Blackheart,” interrupted Portious morosely, entering the tea room, where everyone was gathered. “I’m afraid I have some startling news.”

“Oh, not more spookings,” sighed Blackheart. “What now?”

“Several of Mrs. Moggins’s saucepans have gone missing, m’lord,” explained Portious in his usual flat tone.

“My best milk pan!” yelled the fuming cook, leaning out from behind the butler. “And a frying pot! Valuable they are! I’ll wager it’s that Speckle woman—out to sabotage my cooking.”

“Ooh now, steady on,” piped up Inspector Lemone. “That’s a serious allegation.”

“Aloysius!” wailed Lady Blackheart, wafting in through the doorway. “A pearl box has gone missing from my boudoir! Miss Daise thinks it’s the treasure-hungry ghoul adding to his stash!”

“Like the monkey too,” Wilma said, reaching for her notebook.

“I’m not so sure about that,” Mr. Goodman interjected. “A spook doesn’t have much need for cooking implements. But it would appear,” he went on, reaching for his pipe and tobacco, “that seemingly random objects
are
going missing around the Hoo. However, I would suggest there is a pattern emerging.”

“Oh!” piped up Wilma, who had been scribbling down a list of the missing things. “I love a pattern! Is it swirly? Or curly?”

Theodore cleared his throat. “It is my opinion that the presence of a notorious Criminal Element and the sudden disappearance of several
valuable
objects are not unrelated.”

“Oh, wait,” Wilma said, scratching her head. “That’s one of those double nots, isn’t it? If it’s a not it’s a no, but if it’s a not-not it’s a yes.”

“A double negative,” explained the great detective patiently. “Correct.”

“In this patterny thing, you said they’re not
un-
related. That’s one not for the not and the second not for the
un,
so that’s definitely a not-not. So that means they ARE related. Ah-ha! Golly. Not-nots are quite dizzy, aren’t they, Mr. Goodman?”

“What my apprentice is accurately, if a little excessively, explaining is that yes, I think it’s safe to assume that the person behind these thefts is none other than Barbu D’Anvers.”

“So Barbu’s got the monkey!” said Tarquin, standing up suddenly. “But if he gets to the treasure first, then I still owe him all that money!”

“The good thing is,” said Theodore, holding out a steadying hand, “that if he does have it, there’s every chance he doesn’t know what he has, so there may be no cause for alarm. Besides, if he has it, then Inspector Lemone can arrest him. It is stealing, after all.”

“It’d be a pleasure,” burst out Lemone, puffing his cheeks. “Has anyone seen the scoundrel? I’ll chase him down!”

“Actually, wasn’t that him?” exclaimed Dr. Flatelly suddenly, pointing out of the window. “I’ll see if I can grab him, shall I?”

“What? Where?” blustered the Inspector, also peering out of the window. “I’ll come with you, Doctor—oh, he’s already gone.”

“Yes, let’s go after him,” Mr. Goodman agreed, but Lord Blackheart stepped in front of the door.

“So are you saying”—he narrowed his eyes—“that as far as the treasure hunt goes, without that monkey you’ve drawn a blank?”

“Lord Blackheart,” the great and serious detective began, “there’s something important I need—”

“Blanks!” Wilma yelled suddenly. “In Bludsten’s diary!” She held it aloft.

“Yes, a very useful document, Wilma,” Mr. Goodman agreed, slightly baffled by the outburst. “I did indeed plan to turn to that next, in lieu of the monkey statue. But that’s not what I was going to say.”

“No,” Wilma gabbled desperately. “I’ve just had a Hunchy Instinct moment and remembered the
chapter on top secret messages in my Academy textbook. And it said that sometimes a blank page isn’t a blank page at all but an invisible message, and I know revealing the message had something to do with pancakes…but I can’t quite remember—do you add sugar or eat it? But my textbook also says that if you munch up the evidence, that’s sort of destroying it, so that can’t be right …”

“Hmm,” said Theodore, taking the diary and flicking through it. “You’re right, Wilma.” He gave her a proud look. “Only I think you mean add lemon and cook it. Mrs. Moggins,” the great detective went on, turning to the cook, “would you have some lemon juice at your disposal?”

“Never mind her,” shouted Mrs. Speckle, marching in with a tray of corn crumbles. “I’ve ALWAYS got a lemon in my knitted sock pouch. Never leave home without one.”

“Oooh, biscuits …” murmured the Inspector, dribbling a little.

Taking a knife from the tea tray, Theodore sliced the lemon in two. Then he squeezed one half gently so that a few drops of lemon juice
dripped onto the blank pages of the diary. “Sometimes,” the famed detective explained, walking over to the fire, “secret things are written in ink that is invisible to the naked eye. But if you add a little acidity—the lemon—and a little heat—the fire…come here and see …” He held the diary pages toward the flaming coals. Wilma trotted over and peered at the blank pages. As if by magic, faint brown lines began to appear on one of them right before her eyes. She let out a small gasp. “And there you are,” continued Theodore as the picture revealed itself further. “We have a…map!”

“Oh my!” whispered Wilma, who was ever so impressed. A little bit with herself as well, for working it out. Sort of. “Is that it, then? Is that the map to the treasure?”

“Not sure. It looks incomplete,” pondered Theodore. “I’ve seen this before. It may be half of a double map—it’s a common trick, two maps needed to make one complete map. By the look of it, Bludsten was making rough drafts in his diary of the two map clues he planned to hide
as part of the treasure trail. Like the two map scrolls shown on the mine wall. Although annoyingly, there is a page missing here. It may be the second part we needed.”

Wilma, who had gone a bit cross-eyed with all the “this map, that map” business, shook her head. “There’s an awful lot to take in, isn’t there, Pickle? We’re on a treasure hunt with a map that needs another map,” she explained. “I hope you’re keeping up.” Pickle stared back at her. He didn’t have a clue WHAT was going on.

Suddenly there was a shattering noise and a scream rang through the house. Lady Blackheart leaped out of her skin. “Not again!” she cried, running to the door. “That sounded like Miss Daise! Oh, Aloysius! We must hurry!”

Wilma followed closely behind Mr. Goodman as they all ran toward the continuing screams. She had to admit that although part of her couldn’t wait for another spooky clue to add to her Clue Board, she was also more than a little petrified about what ghoulishness they might face. She hadn’t forgotten her terrifying encounter with
the Phantom in the mine. In fact, she wasn’t sure she ever would. It had tried to kill them, after all!

When they finally arrived in the lower hall they found Fenomina collapsed in the arms of Dr. Flatelly. Both looked extremely rattled.

“What has happened?” asked Theodore with some urgency, glancing quickly about him. On the floor, next to the psychic, there was an upturned table, a broken vase, and some plant stems…and three arrows were embedded in the wooden floor.

“It must have been the crossbow up there,” muttered Irascimus, visibly shaken. “Something must have set off the mechanism. But how…I can’t explain. Missed us by a whisker.”

“I was adding to your latest flower arrangement, Lady Blackheart,” Fenomina wailed, indicating what looked like a bunch of thorny weeds at her feet, “and the doctor here had stopped to admire it, when those arrows came at us out of nowhere!”

“Someone just tried to kill me too,” admitted Tarquin, following hard on Theodore’s heels. “With a marble bust.”

“Really?” the butler exclaimed, a shocked expression on his usually droopy face.

“It’s the Fatal Phantom again!” whispered Lady Blackheart, gripping her husband’s arm. “And now it’s so angry, it’s trying to kill us all!”

Theodore turned and squinted toward the firing mechanism on the weapon mounted high on the wall. “Hmm,” he pondered. “It seems we have progressed beyond attempted theft and scare tactics to something much worse, what with the attack on our lives in the mine as well!”

“Oh my goodness!” Wilma exclaimed, her eyes widening. “And there’s proof the Phantom is feeling Fatal again. Look at this, Mr. Goodman. Something terrible’s scratched into the wallpaper over here.” While everyone else had gathered around Fenomina, Dr. Flatelly, and the arrows, Wilma and Pickle had been doing their own sniffing out of the scene—and just around the corner from the last arrow, they had found another spooky scrawl.

The great detective reached for his mag-nifying glass and followed Wilma’s shaking finger toward the message gouged into the wall. “‘
DEATH TO ALL IF YOU PERSIST IN THIS HUNT
,’” he read in a solemn tone. Everyone gathered gasped.

“The Phantom probably did it with its terrible talons, right, Mr. Goodman?” Wilma urged.

“Definitely something curved,” the detective continued.

Wilma looked at him hopefully—was that a yes, he believed in ghosts and their talons now? She wasn’t sure.

“The dead are truly walking among us!” cried Belinda, clutching her hands to her mouth. “And what’s more, they want us dead too!”

“I didn’t come here to be
murdered,
” moaned Fenomina. “Portious, arrange for my sled to return me home immediately.”

“Are you sure, madame?” the butler rumbled. “I—”

“YES!” the psychic screamed hysterically.

Dr. Flatelly staggered to his feet and, taking a handkerchief from his pocket, he wiped his brow. “First the mine, now this…If anyone needs me I shall be in my office. I need to calm down.”

“Wilma, Inspector,” said Theodore, looking purposeful, “to the Clue Board. We need to have a rethink.”

“But what about my pan?” yelled Mrs. Moggins as the detective paced away. “What are you going to do about that?”

“I think he’s decided there are more pressing matters to be dealt with, Mrs. Moggins,” stated Portious, pulling one of the arrows from the floor.

“Not for me there aren’t!” declared the angry cook. “Well, if you want something done, do it yourself!” And with that, she barged down the corridor.

Goodness, this is a hullaballoo. An incomplete map, a hidden treasure, a milk pan stolen, a missing monkey, a villain on the loose, and a murderous ghoul with a fondness for writing on walls—it’s a positive
commotion
. Steady your nerves, children, and let’s crank up the heat …

I
know it was you!” shouted a livid Mrs. Moggins, hands on hips. “That’s my best pan for sauces! And I want it back!”

Barbu, who had been cornered, grimaced and looked a bit baffled. “And you are?” he demanded. “I’m generally not used to being told what to do by anybody, let alone rough-skinned women who look like boiled hams. OW! What the…OW!” he yelled again, recoiling as Mrs. Moggins came at him with her rolling pin.

The bully cook wasn’t standing for any sort of nonsense. “I don’t care what you are used to, I want my pan back,” she hissed in his face.

“Ugh!” Barbu protested, wiping his cheeks frantically. “You’re actually spitting on me! All right! You can have your stupid pan back. My boy has it. He’s down at Arewenearlythereyet market on our stall.”

Mrs. Moggins straightened up and tucked her rolling pin back under the top string of her apron. “Right, then. And let’s hope for your sake that he
still
has it. And that monkey. Or they’ll never find the treasure.”

Barbu’s ears pricked. “What monkey?” he pressed.

“A brass monkey they’re all moaning about. Got some scribbles on it or something. Clues for the treasure.”

An evil smirk spread across Barbu’s lips. “Let me accompany you to Coop. We’ll take my carriage. I wouldn’t
like
it if you slipped on some ice …”

Mrs. Moggins’s face softened. “Oh well, thank you very much,” she answered, turning and stomping down the corridor.

Barbu watched her as she galumphed away from him, his smirk turning to a deep scowl.
“I’d
LOVE
it …” he muttered, before heading off after her.

Janty had set up a stall in a prominent position in the middle of Arewenearlythereyet’s small but bustling market. It was well-known for its broad range of goods, everything from bobble hats to porcelain mice. And despite the snow, people bustled back and forth buying hiding holes and last-minute Brussels sprouts and parsnips for their Brackle Day celebrations. A small crowd had gathered at Janty’s stall and so far, trade had been brisk. He had managed to sell a silver prawn, a wooden nutcracker in the shape of a pig, and one decorative plate with a badger on it. With his jacket buttoned up tightly and his scarf wrapped around him, Janty hopped on the spot and blew on his fingers. The weather might have started to improve, but it was still freezing cold.

“How much for that pan?” asked a woman in an enormous balloon-shaped hat.

“Five groggles,” replied the boy, pulling the saucepan from the box.

“Not so fast!” came the voice of Mrs. Moggins as she dashed toward him, Barbu hot on her heels. “I’ll take that, thank you! Ooooooooh!” she cried out as she slid violently to the icy ground.

“Oh dear,” said Barbu, staring down at the flailing figure of the oversized cook. “Fallen over? Have you broken anything?”

“No, I don’t think so,” groaned Mrs. Moggins, trying to get up.

“Too bad. I should have pushed a bit harder. Now then, Janty.” He grabbed the boy by the shoulder and hissed into his ear. “Please don’t tell me you’ve sold anything looking like a monkey?”

Luckily for Barbu, he hadn’t. It was still in Janty’s box and within moments, after handing back all the cook’s pans, they were examining it for clues.

“Look—there, engraved on the bottom. Symbols and pictures,” Janty exclaimed seconds later.