Wilma Tenderfoot: The Case of the Fatal Phantom (20 page)

“Boo!” giggled Belinda, smiling.

Barbu stared at her blankly. “Who’s this?” he mumbled out of the side of his mouth.

“Belinda Blackheart,” Janty whispered back. Barbu still looked blank. “She’s your fiancée, master.”

“Oh yes,” muttered Barbu. “What do you want?”

“Well,” began Belinda, “I came down to choose some wines for our reception. You must have had the same thought. Anyway, now I’ve got you here, we could decide what wedding cake we want and whether the bridesmaids’ dresses should be in cream or mauve and…OH!”

With one sharp shove, Barbu barged past Belinda and sent her collapsing into a large barrel. He strode off up the wine cellar steps. “Don’t mind Mr. D’Anvers,” Janty explained to a shell-shocked Belinda. “He’s just overexcited.”

Meanwhile, the strange cube the teeny villain had tossed aside earlier lay unnoticed on the floor. Its fall had caused it to spring open, revealing the other half of Barbu’s map clearly visible within it. He had thrown away the one bit he needed! And the lesson to be learned here, readers? ALWAYS check the packaging!

Wilma leaped down the front steps of the Hoo, Pickle fast on her heels. One of the best things about being an apprentice detective was getting to do things that felt urgent and important. They would need the mummy’s key to open the treasure that they now had a location for, and showing initiative by hurrying to fetch it from Dr. Flatelly was exactly the sort of urgent thing Wilma had in mind. “Mr. Goodman will be ever so pleased with me,” she told Pickle with a grin. There’s nothing worse than having to do boring jobs. A lot of grown-ups spend all their time moaning about how dull their lives are precisely because of this problem. That’s why they always look miserable, are prone to grumpiness, and sometimes develop a sudden and inexplicable desire to go cycling on mountain bikes or run marathons. Keep your eyes peeled. Those ones are bored STIFF.

Wilma ran through the snow, her Wellingtons leaving deep footprints behind her as Pickle bounced along at her side. The sunny afternoon air was crisp and cold so that their breath puffed out before them. Wilma felt excited. As soon as they had the key they could unlock the Blackheart
treasure and when that was done, they’d get to the bottom of the hauntings. Never mind that Mr. Goodman still thought it was a heap of hocus-pocus! She knew otherwise, and would be ready to impress him with her spook-exercising regimen when it appeared. She’d tire out the Phantom in no time, catch it, and banish it once and for all. The case would be solved on two counts, and all thanks to Mr. Goodman and her! She’d be a proper detective before she could say “Fatal Phantom.”

They had run around the front of the Hoo and were heading past the kitchens when Wilma skidded to a halt. In the courtyard, beside the back door into the delivery area, stood a cart. The breath caught in Wilma’s throat and she could feel her heart thumping against her rib cage. Pickle, who actually
had
to bounce along because the snow was so deep and he wasn’t wearing his snowshoes, suddenly realized she had come to a standstill and, trying to turn back mid-bounce, flipped sideways into a pile of wooden buckets. The clatter of falling buckets echoed around the courtyard. Hearing it, a man’s face popped up
from behind the back of the cart. Wilma’s heart beat faster. Emblazoned on the side of the cart was the exact same crest that had been on the ham cloth in Mrs. Moggins’s kitchen and on the muslin Wilma had been found wrapped in when she was a baby! Was that man Wilma’s responsible person…even relative?

“Afternoon!” said the fellow with a nod.

Wilma gulped and clutched her mittens together tightly. “Hello,” she said quietly, walking a little closer. “Are you the butcher?”

“Stanley Brisket!” said the man, pointing to the name under the crest. “That’s me! Been a butcher on Cooper for eleven years!”

Wilma stared at him. He was a short, wide-looking fellow with cheeks like meatballs. He was bald apart from a few stray wisps of hair blowing in the chilly wind, and his apron, slightly bloodied, was pulled tight over the sort of belly that showed an incredible dedication to both pints of beer and pies. He didn’t
look
like Wilma, but then, family members don’t always have to bear a resemblance. There was nothing else for it, Wilma was going to have to bite the bullet. She
took a deep breath. “The thing is, Mr. Brisket,” she said, “I was left at the gates of the Institute for Woeful Children when I was a baby. And the reason I’m telling you is because I was wrapped in one of your meaty muslins.” She stopped and flashed her green eyes upward, waiting to see if there was a moment of recognition.

Stanley Brisket stared back. “Wrapped in one of my muslins?” he asked eventually, scratching the top of his head. “And how long ago was this?”

“Well, I’m ten years old,” replied Wilma. “So that long ago. And then Madam Skratch, who runs the orphanage, told me that I have a relative still alive. And there were some letters. So I was wondering …” Wilma stopped and took a massive gulp. “…because I was wrapped up like a ham, whether you might be my missing relative?”

Stanley Brisket looked rather taken aback, almost as if someone had slapped him about the face with a large greasy liver. This was not what he had been expecting when he left his butcher’s shop that morning. He thought he’d be making his weekly routine delivery to the Hoo, but here he was, cornered by an abandoned child and
being quizzed as to whether she was a member of his family. It’s fair to say that most people would remember having a baby in the family and then mislaying it at the front gates of an orphanage, but even so, Stanley Brisket stood for a long while deep in thought. Then he looked back at Wilma, whose eyes were full of hope, and placed a large ruddy hand on her little shoulder. He shook his head. “I’m sorry that you had such a rough start in life,” he began softly. “And I’m even sorrier that one of my ham cloths was involved with it. But I can tell you now, it was not I who deserted you. I can’t explain how you came to be there or how you came to be so wrapped, but I can tell you this: I only wrap my large hams for delivery. And the only places I delivered to ten years ago, when I was just starting out, were here and to the Twelve Rats’ Tails on the Lowside. So if you were wrapped in my muslin all those years back, then I reckon someone from one of those two places had taken my ham, unwrapped it, and wrapped you up instead.”

Wilma felt a little crestfallen. Stanley Brisket was so nice, but he was clearly not her relative.
Still, if there was one thing she’d learned since becoming an apprentice detective, it was that every fresh piece of information is useful. Even so, the two options sent her mind reeling. Was she a Blackheart? They all seemed to have enormous teeth, which she did not, so perhaps that was unlikely. Of course, if the muslin had come from the Hoo, it could also have been used by one of the servants. As for being related to someone at the Twelve Rats’ Tails, the notorious hangout for all Criminal Elements on Cooper—well! It didn’t bear thinking about. That would make
her
a Criminal Element too. And where would that leave her, what with being an apprentice detective and all?

Wilma smiled bravely and thanked the butcher. She was in a bit of a daze, to be honest, and as she wandered off she began to think about how all of this fit in with the letter from her headmistress, Kite Lambard. The handwriting matched the handwriting of the person who had written to Madam Skratch all those years ago looking for Wilma. Miss Lambard didn’t seem to have any connections to the Blackheart estate, not that
Wilma knew of, anyhow. Perhaps she was investigating a crime involving someone at the Twelve Rats’ Tails at the time of Wilma’s birth? Wilma felt her heart sink again. Every new clue seemed to create more confusion. “Sometimes,” she said quietly to Pickle as they approached Dr. Flatelly’s office, “it’s a bit rubbish being an orphan. What with all the mystery and what-nots. Still. At least I’ve got you, eh, Pickle?” He barked up at her and wagged his tail. He’d never leave her. Never.

Arriving at Dr. Flatelly’s shack, Wilma gave her head a little shake to clear her mind and concentrate on the matter at hand. Then she knocked twice. To her surprise, there was no reply. “That’s funny,” she said, scrunching her nose up. “I thought he’d be here, researching. Maybe he just didn’t hear.”

She banged again, this time a little louder, and called out, “Hello! It’s me! Wilma Tenderfoot! Mr. Goodman’s apprentice detective! I’m totally official! And I’ve come to get the key! Which is evidence. So I should have had it in the first place! We found the treasure! We sort of need it!” Then
she stopped and listened, cocking her head to one side. She heard a bump. “Hello?” she called out again, but still no one came to the door. Pickle had his nose to the gap under it, however, and began to paw at the doorstep with some urgency. The bumping sounded again.

“Strange,” said Wilma. “Do you think we should go in?” Pickle barked and pawed at the door once more. Gingerly, Wilma pulled off one of her mittens and tried the front latch. It was unlocked. Opening the door quietly, she poked her head into Irascimus’s office. Again she heard the bumping noise. “Where is that coming from?” she said. Pickle ran to the rug in the center of the room, struck a stiffened pose, and pointed his nose downward to draw Wilma’s attention to something. Tiptoeing over, she stood beside the alert beagle, looked down and listened. There it was again! A muffled bumping! And it seemed to be coming from under her feet!

Pulling back the rug, Wilma gasped. “A trapdoor!” she exclaimed. “Get back, Pickle—I’m going to open it.” Taking hold of the large brass
ring that was inlaid on its surface, Wilma heaved the door open. It fell backward with a bang. And there, in the dark cavity below, was a man in a large-brimmed hat, bound and gagged. “Goodness!” Wilma cried, getting down on her knees to untie him.

“Th-thank you,” the man spluttered as his mouth and hands were released. “Thank goodness you’ve found me! I managed to work my feet free so I could kick on the door, but I wasn’t sure anyone would hear me.”

“But who are you?” Wilma asked, staring.

“I am Dr. Irascimus Flatelly!” he declared with some force. “And the man claiming to be me is an imposter!”

“Oh my!” exclaimed Wilma, clamping a hand to her mouth. She paused for a moment, trying to slot everything into place in her head. Then she burped. “Sorry about that—it’s my Hunchy Instincts repeating on me again. Gosh. The false Dr. Flatelly is after the treasure too! And he’s got the key! Ooooh, I hope he hasn’t worked out where the treasure is. It’s in the gazebo, Real Dr. Flatelly. The one at Folly Island, in the Blackheart
boating lake. Mr. Goodman is probably there already, guarding it. You’d better get there as quickly as you can and warn him about the false Dr. Flatelly. This has all suddenly become very serious. And I’d better go and fetch Miss Daise back from the Swamp of Heavy Sighs. Because what with Mr. Goodman knowing where the treasure is, it’s only a matter of time before we’re overrun with spooks.”

The real Irascimus Flatelly, who was sitting on a chair now and rubbing his wrists, looked up and frowned. “What are you talking about? What spooks?”

“No time to explain!” Wilma cried, making for the door. “I need to get to the swamp. Miss Daise’s exercising skills are much better than mine. Tell Mr. Goodman I’ve gone to fetch Fenomina. Come on, Pickle! There’re spooks to catch!”

Not possible to be more shocked. Simply not possible.

“N
ot here either, Mr. Barbu,” shouted Tully from the bottom of the hole he had been digging.

“Curses,” growled the diminutive villain, getting out the map they had found and looking at it again. “We’ve tried that squiggle there and that blot and that swirly thing that looks half like a worm. Still nothing. One of you had better come up with an idea quickly or I shall start to administer random blows.”

“Maybe I could dig some more holes, Mr. Barbu,” Tully suggested.

Barbu scowled. “We don’t have FOREVER, Tully!” he snapped. “In case you’ve FORGOTTEN,” he added, rapping the henchman on the forehead with his cane, “we’re trying to get to the treasure before Goody-Goodman.”

“Talking of which, master,” piped up Janty, pointing, “there he is! And look, everyone’s following him. And they’re running!”

“They must have found something!” barked Barbu, flinging his cloak over his shoulder. “After them! If we can’t find this treasure first, then we shall have to take it by fair means or foul! Though to be perfectly honest, it’ll probably be foul. Remember that, Janty!”

Folly Island was a small, round, raised piece of ground in the middle of the boating lake. On it stood an ornate stone gazebo, slightly crumbling, its pillars in the shape of fat pigs standing on their hind legs. At the edge of the lake, there was a line of abandoned rowing boats dragged up onto the shore. Panting and shielding his eyes against the late afternoon sun, Inspector Lemone looked
out toward the island. “Nobody there, Goodman,” he puffed. “Perhaps we made it in time? Though no Wilma either, from what I can see. We can use one of these boats and row out to check.”

Theodore jumped into the nearest boat and took up an oar. “Come on, Lemone!” he yelled. “You take the other!”