Wilma Tenderfoot: The Case of the Fatal Phantom (9 page)

As Wilma approached her mentor, she could tell by his stern expression that Mr. Goodman, who was already a very famous and serious detective, was probably about to be a bit more serious than usual. “Now then,” he began, knitting his fingers together. “I have noticed that you seem to be dangerously close to being suckered in by this nonsense. Take care, Wilma. Remember what I told you about cheap tricks and shenanigans. I don’t want you to get hurt or upset because this woman thinks it is acceptable to make something up about your past in order to pretend she has
psychic powers. Don’t forget your three top tips, Wilma—contemplate, deduct, and stay sharp. These will get you much further than any of this mumbo-jumbo idiocy.” He looked even more serious then.

Wilma nodded solemnly. “And I read my Academy textbook chapter about Hunches and Instincts last night. It said when a detective gets a gut feeling about something, then that can be quite useful. Shall I try working on that too, Mr. Goodman?”

“Good idea, Wilma.” The great detective smiled.

“Let me see if the ball wants to reveal your secrets,” Fenomina suddenly wailed from behind them. Wilma looked over her shoulder as the psychic pulled back the velvet cloth with a flourish. Wilma gasped despite herself. The ball, which had been dull and lifeless, was now swirling with what appeared to be a bright blue mist.

“Ahhhh,” whispered Fenomina, her one eye blazing. “The ball speaks to me. It speaks…Answers are coming. You do not have long to
wait. I see a woman…She is trying to find you…There are tears in her eyes…She is longing to be reunited with you…and there is an overwhelming smell of…ham! I can smell ham!”

“Ham?” asked Wilma, blinking. “Gosh, Mr. Goodman, do you think that’s because of the muslin I was wrapped in? The one that had the lamb chops on it? Do you think it’s a message? From my parents?”

A gong sounded behind them. “Lunch is ready, Lady Blackheart,” said Portious with a bow. “Boiled gammon and parsley sauce.”

Theodore raised his eyebrows and put a gentle hand on his young apprentice’s shoulder. “Tricks and shenanigans, Wilma. The smell of ham is merely lunch.”

“Oh. Yes. Of course.”

“Well, now you’re here, Miss Daise,” Lady Blackheart said, putting a guiding hand on the psychic’s arm, “I suggest we all retire for lunch and gather our strength. The sooner we can banish these banshees, the better!”

“I think eating is the best idea anyone’s had all day,” agreed Lemone, pacing toward the dining room. “Haven’t even had a corn crumble all morning. It’s a wonder I’m still alive.”

It is a well-known fact that small and determined little girls are VERY good at giving themselves stern talking-tos. As everyone made their way toward the dining room, Wilma screwed her hands into fists and reminded herself out loud once and for all—“Ghosts don’t exist; there’s no such thing as a psychic; it’s all tricks and shenanigans.” She MUST remember this if she was to be any help at all to Mr. Goodman in finding the tricksters or the treasure and prove herself the outstanding detective apprentice she was sure she was capable of being.

“It is clear,” Fenomina was opining when Wilma arrived in the dining room with Pickle at her heels, “that the Hoo is in the talons of a terrible aura. I can taste it, I can smell it, and soon, I hope, I shall be able to see it.” She extracted what looked like a saltshaker from her billowing sleeve and proceeded to sprinkle a black dust
over her plate. “Crushed insects,” she explained when she looked up and saw Wilma staring. “It helps with my spiritual connections.”

Wilma suppressed a grimace.

“Sorry I’m late,” muttered Dr. Flatelly, coming in through the doorway. “I lost track of time. I have been poring over papers all morning.”

“Found out what that key fits yet?” asked Tarquin as nonchalantly as he could.

“Not yet, no,” replied the archaeologist, sitting down next to Mr. Goodman. “Although there seem to be references to a diary kept by Bludsten Blackheart himself. Sadly, I don’t know where it is.”

Wilma, whose mouth was full of gammon, choked a little at the mention of the diary. It was sitting quite happily in her pinafore pocket. With all the hoo-ha, she’d plain forgotten about it. She reached to pull it out but stopped. Perhaps she should keep hold of it for the time being—she hadn’t even looked at it properly herself. And she was the apprentice detective, not Dr. Flatelly. And when she’d contemplated it thoroughly and
drawn some useful deductions, THEN she could take it to Mr. Goodman and impress him.

“I am sensing,” Fenomina whispered suddenly, “that someone here is under a most dreadful cloud. I have no wish to alarm, but spirits can sometimes affix themselves to a physical body. A conduit, if you like.”

“Is it Pickle?” asked Lemone, wolfing down a spoonful of mashed potato. “He gets up to some pretty devilish mischief, don’t you, boy?” Pickle sniffed. That was practically
libel
.

But Fenomina stared wildly about the table and rose slowly as if in a trance. The lights overhead flickered and died momentarily. “Feeling getting stronger,” she mumbled. “Someone here is being used as an agent of malevolence. They may not even realize it! It’s not you, Lord Blackheart! Nor you, Lady Blackheart!” The psychic’s one good eye and glinting eye patch rested momentarily on Inspector Lemone, who had a bread roll stuffed in his cheeks. “Neither is it you, sir!” she continued, moving onward as the Inspector slumped forward with relief. “I am sensing no otherworldly
forces in you, Master Blackheart. Your maids are free of spectral torment! Neither is it the butler!” Portious’s long face drooped even further at the reprieve. Fenomina’s gaze moved toward Goodman. She wavered. “Wait…No! It’s all right! Our detective friend is perfectly safe!”

“I think this should stop,” said Theodore, standing up. “You are making people distressed.”

But Fenomina ignored him. One eye glaring, she lifted her arm and began to extend a finger toward…“Wilma? No!” Suddenly, spinning on the spot, her accusing finger came to rest on Belinda Blackheart. “It is you!” wailed Fenomina. “The youngest Blackheart! You are possessed by the tortured spirit of the unburied Bludsten Blackheart! And look! As if my testimony wasn’t proof enough! Look at her chair! Dripping with ectoplasm!”

Wilma leaped to her feet to see a green gloopy mush surrounding Belinda’s seat.

“The physical evidence of a spiritual energy!” Fenomina expounded.

Pickle, extra-sensitive to all manner of ghoulish
commotions, crawled under the table, where he was able to take comfort in a small scrap of discarded gammon. Lemone, equally thin-skinned when it came to spooks, dealt with the onset of this particular crisis by quietly putting a napkin over his face so that he didn’t have to see anything. Everyone else jumped up from their chairs and stared.

All eyes were on Belinda. Shocked, the girl looked down at herself, saw the strange greenish slime surrounding her, screamed, and fainted. “Quickly! You, butler man,” said Fenomina as she and Lady Blackheart rushed to the girl’s side, “you’re nearest. Help me get her to a sofa.”

As Portious and the psychic carried Belinda from the room, Lord Blackheart threw down his napkin. “Well, I know you seem set in your ideas, Goodman,” he yelled, “but by the look of things, this house is in the grip of a haunting!”

“No,” mumbled Theodore, his jaw set tight. “It is not. Wilma,” he added, gesturing toward his apprentice, “despite my initial reservations, I am
now convinced that criminal activity is afoot. It is quite clear to me that the prospect of treasure has turned minds to nefarious deeds.”

Wilma scrunched her nose up. “Neffy-what?” she asked.

“Nefarious,” explained Theodore. “It means wicked. Quite wicked, in fact. I want you to arrange an operations room and get a Clue Board up and running. I’ll let you have first go at it, especially as you seemed quite keen to list suspects when we first arrived. Stick with current Hoo residents—I think the weather rules out anyone else. But I only want to see
facts
when I return—like who might have a motive to pretend to be a spook and why.” Mr. Goodman cast a quick glance at his fob watch. “I had hoped to return to Clarissa Cottage by mid-afternoon,” he said, “given that the weather is worsening. But we have no choice. There are leads to follow and theorems to formulate. I’ll take a sample of this ‘ectoplasm’ and see if Portious can have it sent over to the lab along with that blood before the snow sets in. I’ll use that as an excuse to do some
questioning of the staff with Inspector Lemone. Nothing too intrusive, just a gentle sniffing out. Good. I’ll see you in an hour, Wilma. I’ll have a look at your Clue Board then.”

Wilma gave a small nod. Despite being THRILLED to be asked to prepare a Clue Board, she couldn’t help but be puzzled. Mr. Goodman was always saying a proper detective needs proper evidence. Well, now there was ectoplasm and everything! How did you explain that humanly, she wondered.

Baffling, isn’t it?

B
arbu was peering out from behind a statue of a giant saddleback pig, his eyes narrowed to slits. “Is that her again?” he hissed to the companions at his back. “The one with the wet face?”

“Yes. That’s Belinda Blackheart. Looks as if she’s crying, master,” answered Janty, poking his head over Barbu’s shoulder. “Which is perfect. This book on wooing a lady says that a gentleman should always offer assistance to a woman in distress.”

“Right, then,” answered Barbu, pulling down his waistcoat. “I shall intercept her immediately. What am I supposed to say to her again?” he added, clicking his fingers.

Janty flicked through the book in his hand. “You might like to start with a general comment on the weather, then say something nice about her appearance.”

“Nice?” moaned Barbu. “Oh, very well. Sooner I get this over with, the better. Once Belinda Blackheart is hooked, we can turn our minds to ridding ourselves of the other Blackhearts. And Janty, I want you to start looking for some building blueprints. There were no obvious hiding places for treasure on the ground plans the butler brought us—I’m not even sure they were for this property! Tully, you stay here in case she tries anything
romantic
.”

Belinda had been carried from the dining room to a chaise longue in the rear hall, where she was now in something of a state. Having regained consciousness, she had slumped against a wooden plinth and was sobbing uncontrollably. “Oh, look!” called Barbu as he approached her. “It’s…general comment about the weather…snowing …” He wafted a hand vaguely in the direction of the window. Belinda stared at him
blankly and sniffed. Barbu stared back. “Sorry, I’ve dried up. Tully!” he shouted over his shoulder. “What’s the next bit?”

“Appearance, master,” the henchman called from his hiding place.

“Oh yes.” Barbu cleared his throat and examined Belinda once more. Her eyes were red and puffy, her nose was snotty, and she was gulping like a frog. There was a short, awkward silence. “I think I’ll skip that bit,” he said eventually, with a grimace. “You might want to blow your nose. You’re dripping onto your shoes.”

Belinda pulled a long handkerchief out from the sleeve of her dress and blew into it loudly. “I’m a conduit for evil!” she wailed.

Barbu blinked. “Really? Oh well, things
are
looking up. Perhaps we can have another chat when you’re less…damp.”

Belinda, still leaking tears, swallowed and nodded with a sniff. Stepping forward she placed her hand on Barbu’s forearm. “Thank you for being so nice to me, Mr. D’Anvers.”

Barbu knocked her hand away swiftly and
looked toward the pig statue for help. Tully was pointing toward his mouth and grinning exaggeratedly. “Oh heavens,” groaned Barbu, “I have to
smile
.” Turning back to Belinda, who was staring down at him devotedly, the reluctant villain slowly creaked his mouth into a fixed and painful grin. The rogue was hating every second of it, but when there’s a means to an end, a gentleman of no morals will do ANYTHING.

“What on earth …” began Theodore as he walked into the upstairs boot room that now had a hand-scrawled note on it reading:

OPERATIONS ROOM. DETECTIVES ONLY (AND APPRENTICES) (AND DOG)

Before him was a host of clutter. Chairs were upside down, boots had been cleared from shelves, and the walls were covered with strange hand-drawn images of the current Blackheart family, while in the center of the room there was a hat stand with a walking stick strapped horizontally across it.

Wilma appeared from behind a large pile of Wellington boots. “I’m going to drape one of the curtains over that,” she said, pointing toward the hat stand, “as a visual clue of what the Fatal Phantom might look like if we meet him. Or her.”

“Or if it even exists,” added Mr. Goodman with a lift of his eyebrows.

“Indeed,” agreed Wilma, trying her best to sound like a proper detective. “And Portious has lent me this large wooden tea tray, which I’ve managed to turn into a Clue Board. Though there is a bit of crusted porridge on it. Which I can’t get off.”

“Hmmm,” pondered Theodore, looking about him. “Well, it’s not strictly regular, but…not a bad idea, Wilma.”

Wilma grinned delightedly.

“Although I’m not sure we’ll need all the papier-mâché balloon heads you appear to have made.”

“There’s a balloon head to represent everyone who works at the Hoo, Mr. Goodman. It’s taken ages,” explained Wilma, pointing to the one Theodore had picked up. “That’s Mrs. Moggins. I
found some hair down the back of the sofa, so I made her mustache with it.”

The great and serious detective blinked, put the balloon head down, and quietly wiped his hands with a handkerchief. “Now then,” he said, regaining his composure, “what have we got to go on? This is a strange case for us. After all, the only body is over a century old and mostly irrelevant, and no real crime seems to have been committed. Yet. Though we may have a treasure to find.”

“Well, I know it’s a lot more wonky than we’re used to, but I reckoned if I thought about it like a normal case, then that might make it less so.” Wilma heaved the wooden tea tray Clue Board into view. “We know that a body was discovered at the bottom of the Blackheart Hoo estate. Dr. Flatelly—that’s him there in the hat—is pretty certain that it’s Bludsten Blackheart.” She took a picture of Bludsten that she’d cut from a book and pinned it to the board. “In his hand was a key,” she added, sticking up another hand-drawn picture, “that might lead to a lost treasure. Since the discovery of the body and the key, there have
been unexplained events …” Wilma stopped and looked up, cleared her throat and carried on. “Unexplained events, like the bloody messages, that suggest the Hoo might be being haunted by a Fatal Phantom summoned by Bludsten Blackheart to guard his buried treasure! The same Fatal Phantom that frightened him to death! Not only that, but the ectoplasm at lunch seemed to suggest that Belinda Blackheart was possessed—by the ghost of the unburied Bludsten Blackheart, according to Miss Daise. Here’s the picture I drew of Belinda being possessed.” Wilma held up her drawing before rushing on. “But since spooks don’t exist, which is good because otherwise all that could be considered QUITE scary, that means…er …”