Wilma Tenderfoot: The Case of the Fatal Phantom (2 page)

Wilma Tenderfoot, apprentice detective to Theodore P. Goodman, Cooper Island’s most famous and serious detective, had plenty of enthusiasm
and always did her best, but things never quite went according to plan. Despite all her efforts, she often seemed to find herself in a scrape or a muddle, especially ever since her hero, the mind-bogglingly brilliant detective Mr. Goodman, had taken her in, and accepted her as his apprentice. Abandoned at the gates of the Lowside Institute for Woeful Children when she was a baby, Wilma hadn’t the least idea who she really was or where she had come from. For years she had dreamed of growing up to detect and deduct her own story, and there was no one she wanted to emulate more in doing so than the great Theodore P. Goodman. She’d been cutting out newspaper articles about him and studying all his cases since she was old enough to read. And now she lived with him at Clarissa Cottage and worked for him! It had been a month since their last case, a tricky assignment involving some putrid poison at a vaudeville theatre and (another) near death-experience for Wilma, but Mr. Goodman had rescued her in the nick of time. Wilma was pleased that since then Cooper’s Criminal Elements seemed to have
been behaving themselves. But at the same time she found herself itching once more to advance her detecting skills and prove that she COULD get things right.

Cooper, an island somewhere between England and France and shaped like a bow tie, has never been discovered. There was once a close encounter with the great explorer Scott of the Antarctic, who almost landed there on his way to the North Pole, but as he had only packed winter clothes, he decided against it, reasoning that it looked “a bit warm.” Since then, nobody from the outside world had ever come close to visiting and no one from Cooper had ever left. There were rumors that a slightly deranged man had once been found washed up on the rocks at Filthy Cove burbling in a language nobody could understand but Inspector Lemone, Theodore’s right-hand man and Cooper’s only policeman, always dismissed this as a “bag of nonsense” and said that it was “probably a large seal or hairy fish.” And that was that.

Like all odd places, Cooper had its own traditions: There was the monthly Egg Nudge and the thrice-yearly Cow Stare, but the greatest day of all was Brackle Day, the once-a-year celebration of island life in which the great separation of the island into the Lowside (the woebegone part of the island) and the Farside (the well-to-do bit) was commemorated. Presents were hidden, Brackling Plays were performed across the island, and mighty feasts were enjoyed. As with all big days, preparations were required, and Wilma and Pickle had been tasked with the greatest responsibility of all—gathering up the decorations.

The Brackle Bush was a large, unwieldy, thickety thing with long poisonous thorns and stinging leaves. As plants go it was a menace, but because it had played an intrinsic part in the original separation of the island, every Cooperan was required to acquire one and put it in their parlor for the duration of Brackle Week. Tradition dictated that the Brackle Bush had to lean at a forty-five-degree angle, be covered in parsnip
heads and sprout tops, and crowned with a magnificent giant corn-crumble biscuit, which, in fancy houses, was often decorated too. Sometimes the biscuits would be adorned with intricate marzipan paintings of Cooper landmarks like the one small hill or the broken plow at Wimpers Farm, but most people liked to decorate them with short motivational phrases like “Bend at the knees NOT the hips” or “If it’s brown, flush it down.” At Clarissa Cottage Mrs. Speckle, who was in charge of the icing, always decorated her corn crumble with the same two words—“Try harder”—because, as she said every year, “We can all do that. And I have a very small icing bag. Take it or leave it.”

“You have some eggshell in your hair,” said Mrs. Speckle, peering into the basket of vegetable tops Wilma and Pickle had brought back to Clarissa Cottage, “and a slug on your shoulder. But I can’t be bothering with that now! I’ve got giant biscuits to make. And get Pickle into the Brackle Apron. That bush isn’t going to decorate itself!”

Dogs, of course, are not normally called upon to perform decorating duties, but Cooper custom dictated that the Brackle Bush had to be prepared by the youngest member of the household, which in this case meant Pickle. He didn’t have a clue about fancy arranging, draping, or dangling. Still, he’d have to do his best. The entire household was depending on him. And there was always a chance he could quietly sneak the odd sprout top when no one was looking.

Hounds have to put up with all manner of indignities. In his short time as Wilma’s loyal dog, Pickle had been dressed as a plumber and forced to wear a tutu. Surely things couldn’t get any worse? But as Wilma pulled the heavy Brackle Apron onto him, Pickle realized, with a sigh, that they could. The Brackle Apron was a bit like a large beach ball made of an impenetrable material that had to be blown up so that the Brackler, once inside it, was completely protected from the inevitable thorn pricks and leaf stings. As Wilma pumped with her foot, the apron inflated, and when she was finished, all
that could be seen of the beagle was the end of his snout. “Good,” she said with a nod. “Now you can get on with it. The basket of parsnip heads and sprout tops is there. Just pick them out with your mouth and put them on the bush. And I’d stop rolling onto your back if I were you. You’ll never get anything done if you’re upside down.”

“Ah, Wilma,” said a syrupy voice. It was Theodore P. Goodman, the most serious and famous detective that ever lived. He was tremendous to look at, with a mighty shock of golden hair, a chiseled jaw, and a mustache with caramel-colored tips—the very definition of swoony. “A parcel has arrived. Addressed to you.” The great man stopped and sniffed the air, his magnificent mustache twitching in the firelight. “What’s that
awful
smell?”

Wilma fidgeted and scraped at an unpleasant-looking stain on the front of her pinafore. “Probably the sprout tops,” she said, thinking quickly.

“Hmm,” replied Theodore. “It is a great shame we can’t decorate our Brackle Bushes with things
that are pleasantly fragrant. Still, tradition is tradition, however ridiculous it is.” He stared at the inflated hound in front of him. “I see Pickle is this year’s Brackler. Might get it done quicker if he can roll in the direction of the Brackle Bush. I think he’s stuck under my bureau. You probably want to dislodge him, Wilma.”

“Hang on. A parcel?” asked Wilma brightly, giving the bouncing Brackle Apron a small shove. “Is it a Brackle Day present? I’ll have to give it to Mrs. Speckle to hide if it is.”

Hiding presents seems a perfectly reasonable custom. In England presents are often hidden, sometimes beneath a bed or in a cupboard under some stairs. The hiding is merely a stopgap until such time as the present can be brought out and given to the person it’s intended for. On Cooper, however, people
really
hide presents. They get buried, stuffed into cracks and crannies in perilous places, and sometimes even fed to sharks or crocodiles, because a person would have to be crazy to try to get back a soap-on-a-rope
from a ten-foot reptile. And that’s the point! On Cooper, the joy is in the hiding. And if the present is retrieved, well, the day has been ruined. Thankfully, Wilma’s parcel was not a present. It came from her headmistress, Kite Lambard.

As an apprentice, Wilma had been enrolled at the Academy of Detection and Espionage, a venerable if slightly bizarre institution where she was the only pupil and her headmistress, Kite Lambard, the only teacher. The headmistress, however, had recently gone off on an adventure, leaving Wilma to her own devices. Many children might leap for joy at the prospect of going to a school with no teachers or lessons, but not Wilma. Not only did she want to learn the mysteries of detection, she also had some mysteries of her own, namely her family origins, to come to grips with, and without Kite’s help she might as well be stuck in glue.

She had already unearthed some crucial evidence, and with a little guidance from her mentor, Theodore P. Goodman, had made a Clue Board for what she was calling the Case of the Missing
Relative. A Clue Board, Wilma had learned, was a vital tool for any detective: It was a quick visual summary of every piece of evidence gathered so far—a bit like a fridge door, but only covered in very serious things.

On her Clue Board Wilma had pinned the following:

1. The small tag that had been tied around her neck when she was left at the Institute, with the words “Because they gone” scrawled on it.
   
2. A scrap of muslin with a crest of crossed lamb chops on it that had been wrapped around her baby body. Penbert, the island’s assistant forensic scientist, had also identified a stain on the material as being pig’s blood.
   
3. One of the many notes given to Wilma by the revolting matron of the Institute for Woeful Children, Madam Skratch, listing monthly payments for Wilma’s upkeep and referring to her as “Child 427.” Now Wilma knew there was still someone alive who was either related to her or felt responsible for her, but WHO?
   And why had they let her remain at the dreadful Institute for so long?
   
4. A page from an anonymous handwritten note to Madam Skratch asking about an abandoned baby, and
   
5. Wilma’s most exciting clue—a note by Kite Lambard that appeared to be in the same hand-writing as the anonymous note to Madam Skratch.
   

These were the beacons in the fog, the clues that would help Wilma piece together her past, discover who her parents were, and at last give her the sense of belonging that she had always longed for. However, until she saw her headmistress and asked her about that mysterious letter, she would be none the wiser. Wilma would have to be patient.

“There’s a card stuck on the parcel, Mr. Goodman,” said Wilma, blinking with excitement. “Look at the handwriting. It’s definitely the same as that letter I found. Do you think Miss Lambard could be my missing relative?”

Theodore turned and reached for his pipe on
the mantelpiece. Slowly packing it with rosemary tobacco from the leather pouch in his waistcoat pocket, he frowned a little and pondered. “Remember, a good detective doesn’t jump to conclusions, Wilma. Until you have spoken to Miss Lambard, there is no point in speculating.”

“Does speckle-eating mean feeling fizzy in your tummy? Like when you’ve drunk too many Sugarcane Swizzles?” asked Wilma, twiddling the hem of her pinafore. “So that you can’t concentrate and you think you might be a bit sick?”

“Not really,” answered Theodore, sitting at his desk. “It means to guess or make your mind up about something when you don’t have the full facts before you. Speculating is the very last thing an apprentice detective should do. It can cause a lot of bother.”

“I see.” Wilma nodded wisely, steering Pickle from behind the armchair. “Though it’s quite hard not to.” Having established that the parcel was not a Brackle Day present, Wilma ripped it open. “Oh,” she said, eyes widening. “It’s a study sheet. For detecting and spinach.”

“Espionage,” corrected Theodore, lighting his pipe.

“Yes, that.” Wilma nodded again. “I expect Miss Lambard wanted to make sure I’m keeping up with my studies while she’s away. And there’s a piece of paper too,” she added, unfolding it. “‘Dear Wilma, just to let you know I will be returning on Brackle Day for the traditional Academy Play. I am enclosing the cast list.’ Oh, Mr. Goodman! Miss Lambard’s coming back! I’ll be able to ask her about that letter. But why has she sent me a cast list?”

“It’s an Academy tradition, Wilma,” replied Theodore, puffing out a plume of rosemary smoke. “Every pupil has to perform the Brackling Play. Consider it a rite of pass—”

“Ooooh!” Wilma interrupted. “I’ve been cast as Melingerra Maffling! I always wanted to be her when I was at the Institute! And I’m Old Jackquis. And Stavier Cranktop. And the Porpoise. Actually, I’m everyone. Except the Brackle Bush. That’s you, Pickle! What do you think about that?”

But Pickle couldn’t respond. He was rolling slowly but surely toward an old clue from Mr. Goodman’s Case of the Krazy Knockout. It was an oversized boxing glove attached to the end of a very temperamental spring. Suddenly realizing what was about to happen, Theodore stood up. “Not there, Pickle! Quick, Wilma, grab him!” Wilma leaped forward but slid on a banana peel that had fallen from her shoulder and collided with Pickle, sending the inflated Brackle Apron careering even faster into the sprung boxing glove. With a deep
thwack
the glove exploded outward, punching Pickle across the room as fast as lightning.

“Oh no!” yelled Wilma as Pickle smashed into the untethered Brackle Bush, which, shuddering from the impact, quietly keeled over and fell into the open fireplace, where it burned to a crisp in an instant.

“Goodness,” said Theodore, surveying the charred mess. “Well. We shall need a new Brackle Bush, Wilma, or there will be no celebrations for us.”

Wilma stared at the small scene of devastation that she had had a part in causing yet again. One day, she thought to herself as she let the air out of an indignant Pickle’s Brackle Apron, she would get something entirely right. She really would.

B
eing new to her detective apprenticeship, Wilma still had plenty to learn. During their last two cases, she had tried to follow Mr. Goodman’s detective top tips as best she could and to live by the apprentice detective’s Golden Rules but, according to the Academy textbook she’d been given on being enrolled, there were still plenty of basics to come to grips with: things like hunches and suspicions. Wilma couldn’t wait to find out about those. If only they had a new case where she could put these techniques into practice! But until then, she had an important errand to be getting on with.

“Still snowing slightly,” muttered Mrs. Speckle, opening the back door for Wilma and staring out of it. “Getting late too. I wonder if you should wait till tomorrow.”

“No, it’s all right, Mrs. Speckle. I’d rather go now,” replied Wilma, grabbing her scarf. “I made everything wonky, so I need to fix things.”

“Well, all right then.” The grumpy housekeeper shrugged. “But make sure you’re wrapped up. Now then, do you know where the Brackle Bush farm is?”