Mystery & Mayhem

‘The Viscountess’s Venetian glass was purchased from an antiquities dealer in Amsterdam,’ he explained in an excitable gabble. ‘However! It is a fake. I surmise that the Viscountess had discovered the lie, revealed it in conversation with Her Majesty, and in doing so inadvertently revealed that the royal house too had fallen prey to such fakery. She was murdered to prevent a scandal!’

‘It is a bit more of a scandal now, though, isn’t it?’ said Emily, thinking of the stack of newspaper cuttings in the library, and shifting one chessman across the board.

Mr Black tapped his chin. ‘True. Perhaps instead it was the antiquities dealer himself, fearing exposure, who killed her!’

‘He’d need to enter the room, though,’ said Emily, ‘and come out again, and to come all the way from Amsterdam to do it with no one noticing, and to kill her with a weapon no one has yet found.’

Another pawn was discarded.

Mr Black nodded thoughtfully. ‘Very well. I propose the key clue is the word “hare” and that it is a bookmaker that we must pursue! Perhaps the Viscountess was prone to gambling on hare-coursing, and the murderer wished to . . . er . . . send a clear message to all other hare-gambling enthusiasts who had not paid their debts, by writing the word in blood!’

‘Do you really think so?’ said Emily.

Mr Black sighed. ‘No. The Viscountess had no unpaid debts. And the bookmaker too would need to enter the room and get out again: the police are adamant the bolts inside the windows were quite secure, and the door locked. Then there is the clock striking thirteen. Unless . . . was there a bee, perhaps? A killer bee, which stung the poor woman? Or, or – Basil?’

Emily had almost forgotten Lord Copperbole was present.

He was still moustachioed, and as weaselly as ever – but there was no flounce or flourish to the wilting knot of his cravat. Even his famous coat hung loose from his narrowed shoulders. And the food that whirled around the table – truite aux amandes (trout with almonds) and cucumber salad – seemed to interest him not at all.

‘Lord Copperbole is taking the challenge of this case to heart,’ confided Mr Black to Emily, in a kind low voice. ‘We are working so terribly hard, you see.’

Emily did see.

Unfortunately, the newspapers saw too.

QUEEN’S DETECTIVES OUTFOXED?

NOT SO CLEVER NOW, SIR! COPPERBOLE AND FRIEND REMAIN PERPLEXED

MURDERER ROAMS STREETS AS QUEEN’S TOP ’TEC TURNS PEAKY

Emily redoubled her efforts.

While Miss Hethersmith urged her to paint a bunch of violets, she traced the letters of ‘hare’ in her paintbox in Cadmium Red, over and over.

She spent hours in the library, poring over Lord Copperbole’s books.

She stared out at the green cow-smelling downs, as a spider crawled across the windowpane and began to spin its web.

At that, the final chessman shifted into place.

Now the queen was in play, and the game was on.

‘I shall need to send a telegram to London,’ she announced, in the large empty hall, as Wilfrid skittered across its tiles leaving small muddy prints. ‘Hello?’

But no footman or housemaid appeared.

She hurried to the schoolroom, but Miss Hethersmith was not there. All she found was a copy of the London Times.

COPPERBOLE & BLACK TO FACE THE DEADLY BEDCHAMBER!

These pages have remained firm in the conviction that the Queen’s own Detectives are to be offered every courtesy and respect while they unravel this notorious mystery – now entering its fourth week. It is with much hope that we report that Lord Copperbole – despite his recent ill health – and his dusky companion intend to stay one entire night in the Deadly Bedchamber itself, to expose its secret at last.

Emily’s heart pounded.

It was yesterday’s edition.

The time was now past three. Her father and his colleague were to lock themselves into the Deadly Bedchamber at nine that very evening – and she knew, now, with terrible certainty that if they did, she would never see either one alive again.

Lord Copperbole might be a weasel and a peacock with a curly lip, but she did not wish him dead.

And her father . . .

Her dear papa . . .

There was no time to waste.

Emily dashed to the library to collect one slim volume. Then she made for the stables, rode headlong for Brighton, and boarded a steam train.

She was alone, and rather muddy, and, as the darting eyes and whispers were quick to note, also unfortunately dusky. But she kept her head high and her chin firm, and made sure to find a compartment filled with people reading newspapers, so they would not stare.

After an agonisingly slow journey, the train pulled in at London Victoria.

For a moment she quailed: would a carriage driver take a small muddy brown girl, all alone? But all it took was a confident jingle of her purse, and the driver cracked his whip for Marylebone.

It was not hard to find the correct house. A crowd had gathered, all eager to see the famous detectives. A ring of bobbies was attempting to hold them clear of the front steps, and Emily found herself crushed against warm smelly bodies and hairy coats as she tried to press through the throng.

‘Stand back, ladies and gents, no pushin’!’ bellowed a policeman.

‘How are we to know they’ll stay all night long, eh?’ yelled one voice.

‘And who’s going to solve it if they both pop off ?’ called another, to a ripple of laughter.

‘I will!’ shouted Emily, finding herself pressed against a red pillar box at the edge of the pavement, and scaling it at once. ‘I have solved the mystery of the Deadly Bedchamber!’

She stood awkwardly on the domed top of the pillar box, slipping in her muddy boots, and waved the pamphlet from Lord Copperbole’s library excitedly above her head – but the crowd jeered and booed.

Emily looked imploringly at the line of policemen, but they only had eyes for the crowd.

She tried calling out: ‘Father! Papa, I am here, come out at once!’ but her voice could not carry.

She could not draw him out alone. But she was not alone.

Thinking fast, Emily crouched down on her pillar box perch.

‘I don’t think they’re even in there,’ she said, to no one in particular.

‘Darlin’, I saw them go in myself,’ said a woman hotly.

‘They could’ve slipped out of a back entrance,’ said Emily casually.

‘Ere, that’s a point.’

‘How do we know they’re still in there?’

‘Oi! Show yourselves, Lord La-di-dah and Wotsisface!’

The crowd took up the cry. ‘Show yourselves! Show yourselves!’

To Emily’s joy, a pair of curtains on the first floor were thrown back, and a sash window lifted.

Mr Black leant out, looking rather irritable. ‘Sirs, ladies, it is rather a challenge to solve a locked-room mystery; more so if you will not allow us to keep it locked.’

‘Papa! Father, over here! It’s Emily, I’m here!’

This time Emily’s voice was heard. Mr Black almost fell out of the window in surprise at finding his daughter, in London, alone, standing on a postbox, but she shook off all his demands for an explanation.

‘No time, Papa! You must get out of there at once, both of you! The room is deadly!’

‘We know that, dearest,’ said her father, gently.

‘No – the room itself is deadly.’ She took a deep breath, trying to calm herself. ‘Father – Lord Copperbole has been unwell. Has he taken a turn for the worse since entering the room?’

Mr Black looked furtive, as a gaspy choking sound issued from behind him. ‘Er. Possibly?’

‘I know why. And it is what killed the Viscountess Fromentin!’

The crowd, which had fallen silent, began to mutter.

Emily brandished the pamphlet triumphantly above her head, almost slipping from her perch.

‘Why are you waving a fashion catalogue from Paris about, dearest?’

‘Paris Green!’ she called back. ‘The Viscountess was not murdered by a vanishing monster, or an invisible bee. She was poisoned.’

‘By the wine, I knew it!’ yelled someone.

‘Nah, son, it was that guinea fowl.’

Emily shook her head. ‘No! What poisoned her was the wallpaper, the curtains, her bedlinens – all handmade in Paris, to the popular shade, exactly like Lord Copperbole’s coat. Paris Green. Also known as copper acetoarsenite.’

‘Eh?’ said the crowd.

‘But . . . that’s toxic . . .’ said her father, his face falling as he glanced at the curtain by his side.

‘Oooh,’ said the crowd.

‘Ordinary exposure will result in a slower reaction,’ Emily continued. ‘That’s why Lord Copperbole has been unwell! His coat has been very slowly poisoning him. But – the room, the furnishings: I think they must have been super-impregnated with the compound. Sleeping in that room, in a bed, coated in the same poison – that takes only one night to kill.’

There was stillness for a moment.

‘Wait. What about the torn bedlinen?’

‘It was a new bed, new linens. I believe the sheets were torn before she slept, to give the impression of an assailant in the room. The maid either did not notice when she made up the bed, or feared blame if it were mentioned.’

The crowd grumbled.

‘Why did the clock strike thirteen?’

‘I believe the mechanism was tampered with, to add confusion.’

‘What about the wine that got poured away?’

‘Oh! That was just wine. And a viscountess being mean.’

‘All right, all right, I buy it all so far,’ yelled one of the policemen. ‘But who or what is that hare all about?’

Emily’s throat was beginning to hurt from shouting, and her boots really were slippery, but to be called upon by an officer of the law urged her on to reveal her proudest deduction.

‘That,’ she said loudly, ‘holds the vital clue to why this crime occurred in this way. After all, if you want to kill a viscountess, there are quicker ways than selling her curtains super-impregnated with poison. The word “hare” does not mean hare as in furry rabbity creature, but the beginning of another word. Hareng. It is the French word for “herring”, written in blood. A red herring. I think it was written on the floorboards before the Viscountess moved into the room, and covered up with a rug. The missing letters were wiped away by footfalls – or perhaps missed out all along, to prolong the mystery. For this is why the Viscountess died: to preoccupy the Queen’s Detectives with an impossible case. To give them too many clues to solve. To humiliate them with failure – and to draw them into the same trap. The Deadly Room – which is killing them both while I’m talking! Father? Papa? Please, please come down?’

The crowd’s faces turned up to the window, to the forgotten Mr Black above.

Emily met his bright eyes, and saw her father’s chest swell with pride at last.

‘Oh! Yes, at once,’ he said, coming back to himself. ‘I mean to say – oh – Lord Copperbole will need a doctor! And no one is to come into this room!’

Lord Basil Copperbole made a full recovery, and acquired a new coat (demure grey, though the lining was pink and yellow stripes) in time to accompany Miss Emily Black and her father to the palace, where she received a gallantry award for services in the prevention of crime.

‘Perhaps some time back in the country, until all this fuss has died down, hmm?’ said Mr Black, peering anxiously from their carriage as they drew up to the old Richmond house and laboratory, to find the usual crowd gathered to catch a glimpse of the Queen’s Detectives and their young protégée.

‘A little Sussex air . . . some shopping, of course,’ said Lord Copperbole, clapping his hands.

‘Indeed, sir, indeed!’ said Mr Black.

‘Aren’t we going to finish the case first?’ asked Emily.

‘But you solved it, dearest Emily!’ said her father, squeezing her hands. ‘All those clues . . . solved the lot. Even the ones that weren’t really clues.’

‘Yes. Very clever,’ said Lord Copperbole, his cheek twitching with the effort.

‘Um. Well, we know how the Viscountess died, Papa. But we haven’t caught who arranged for her to furnish her home with super-impregnated poisonous bedlinen then laid a false trail of clues, all in order to entrap the two of you in the same room and kill you,’ said Emily, quite slowly, to be sure it went in.

‘Oh. Oh dear,’ said her father.

‘Good heavens,’ said Lord Copperbole. ‘And now we have no clues to go on at all!’

‘Apart from the tailor you visited in Paris who made you your coat,’ said Emily. ‘And whoever recommended him.’

She looked Lord Copperbole in the eye.

Lord Copperbole clutched his lace handkerchief to his lips. ‘But – you can’t be suggesting . . .’

‘She did give you a puzzlebox containing a poisonous tarantula. And I think a cursed scarab beetle before that. I don’t think she intended for it all to help you become a famous detective. Is it possible she doesn’t like you very much?’

Lord Copperbole’s moustache wilted.

‘Don’t worry,’ said Emily. ‘Mary knows Lady Tanqueray’s second footman. If she’s fled the country, he’ll know where her cases have been sent. Shall we go?’

Her father smiled at her with great warmth.

‘My dearest Emily,’ he said. ‘You are becoming quite the detective!’

RAIN ON MY PARADE

By Elen Caldecott

It felt just like mini sparklers were fizzing in Minnie Adesina’s arms and legs and elbows and knees. She couldn’t stay in her flat above Mum’s salon on Marsh Road, not with fireworks exploding from her fingers to her feet! Today was Carnival! Car-ni-val. She drawled the word slowly, the way Bernice, one of Mum’s assistants, did in her Kingston accent. Those three syllables turned the road upside-down and left-side-right every year. The regular market was swept away by a swell of sound and colour. She rushed downstairs, ready to see it all.

It was still early, the summer sun hardly heating the ground, but already the street was full. People in high-vis jackets swung barriers like giant paddles; food vans’ fried onions and spices made her mouth water. At the end of the road, a camera crew and technicians swarmed a temporary stage, tweaking the spotlights on the lighting rig, adjusting the legs of tripods and moving monitors. That would be where the bands played into the evening. But already there was music. From speaker stacks the size of cars, from tiny portable radios, from everywhere, rhythms that made her shoulders leap and roll throbbed and thrummed. Marsh Road was alive with it all.

‘Minnie!’

Flora, one of Minnie’s very best friends, hurtled down the street towards her and grabbed her elbows. Minnie and Flora were part of an investigating team who’d solved more than one mystery on Marsh Road, and seeing her always meant fun and excitement. Then Minnie noticed Flora’s twin, Sylvie, strolling behind. Minnie sighed. Sunny days came with shadows. She smiled at one half of the twins.

‘Isn’t this exciting?’ Flora asked, her red hair bouncing as she leapt up and down. ‘I can’t believe Bernice wants us to help her get ready! We’re going to be right at the heart of Carnival this year, with one of its very best costume makers.’

Minnie glanced at Sylvie. She hadn’t been part of the plan.

Flora noticed the look, but Sylvie was too busy smiling at the camera crew.

‘Is it all right if Sylvie comes too?’ Flora ground the tip of her trainer into the pavement. ‘She didn’t want to be left out.’

Sylvie never wanted to be left out. And she was often loud and pushy enough that it was impossible to ignore her. Sylvie even helped with the Marsh Road Investigators’ cases, when it suited her.

But today was too nice a day to make trouble. Minnie sighed. ‘You can both come. More hands make light work, Mum always says.’

‘Girls!’ The word was yelled so loud that it made a man carrying a barrier drop it on his foot and swear. ‘Girls!’ Bernice waved with both hands. She looked amazing – she must have been up before the sun to do her hair; it was teased into a huge pile on her head, streaked red, yellow and green with extensions. Her gold nails sparkled as she waved. She pulled Minnie into a tight hug. ‘I’ve got an extra helper, have I? Good. My costume is the best yet, like a parrot fought a glitter factory and won. Today you three are my right-hand girls. Come on, the dress is waiting at the lock-up.’

The lock-ups were down a narrow footpath behind Marsh Road, under the railway tracks. A span of arches had doors set into them, creating workshops and storage spaces, vaults of red brick. As they walked, Bernice kept up an excited commentary. ‘Mind your step, this part is a bit overgrown. Careful of the nettles. I’ve been working on this costume for a month now, every spare minute I get. It’s going to knock the shoes and socks off everyone! Ooh, wasp. I don’t like this path, but the lock-up is so cheap, and it’s dark and cool, perfect for storing costumes. No one can even peek inside. Watch out, this bit’s muddy.’

Finally they were in front of Bernice’s lock-up. The smartly painted blue door, with a polished letter box, was padlocked shut.

Bernice took out a key.

She turned it in the lock.

The door swung inward. Minnie caught a scent like charring before Bernice flicked on the light.

‘No!’ she cried. ‘Oh no!’

Minnie ducked through the small doorway, the twins clambering after her. ‘Bernice? What is it?’

With one look it was obvious what was wrong.

Standing on a dressmaker’s dummy in the middle of the space was the ruin of Bernice’s costume. The base layer of Lycra was in place, but the tatter of feathers surrounding it was hideous. The spines were bald without their fluff, the broken quills ugly as road kill. Whatever had happened to the costume had taken all its grace and beauty and left behind a horror.

‘My costume,’ Bernice whispered. She stepped forward robotically. As she reached to touch the few remaining feathers, they crumbled to dust under the pads of her fingers. Brittle pieces flaked to the ground.

Minnie stepped further into the room, with the twins close behind her. They moved slowly, the way hospital visitors might walk into an intensive care ward.

But it was too late for the costume. It was already dead.

‘What happened to it?’ Sylvie asked. ‘It’s awful.’

‘I . . . I . . . don’t . . .’

Minnie glared at Sylvie. ‘Bernice, I think you need to sit down. Here.’ Minnie grabbed a wheeled chair from beside the desk and pushed it towards Bernice.

‘Wait!’ Flora said suddenly. ‘We shouldn’t move anything.’

Minnie froze. Her hands tightened on the back of the chair. Was Flora suggesting what she thought she was suggesting? ‘You think this is a crime scene?’ Minnie whispered. Could this be a case for the Marsh Road Investigators?

Flora gave a firm nod. ‘Bernice, the costume didn’t look this way when you last saw it?’

Bernice shook her head, whipping her extensions back and forth. ‘No – no way. It was fine last night.’

‘And could this have happened by accident?’

Again, Bernice shook her head. ‘No, child. The temperature is just right. The place is kept dark. There are no insects, or mice, no chemicals or anything that could do this damage. This is no accident.’ Her eyes widened as she realised what she was saying. ‘Someone did this on purpose! Someone doesn’t want me to walk in Carnival!’

‘Who?’ said Sylvie.

‘How ?’ said Flora.

Minnie saw exactly what Flora meant. There were no windows in the lock-up at all. The door was the only way in, and it had definitely been locked.

‘Bernice, who else has a key to the padlock?’ Flora asked.

‘No one. There’s only one key and I’ve had it safe in my purse all night.’

Minnie watched as Flora did what she always thought was one of the most exciting things in the world. She opened her ever-present backpack and took out a pen and a notebook. It was the signal that they were about to begin a new case. They had investigated several crimes before now, and each time the details went into Flora’s notebook – every clue, every witness statement, everything – until there was enough information to help them catch the culprit. They had to do the same for Bernice. No one was going to hurt their friend and get away with it.

‘Bernice,’ Flora asked, ‘does anything look unusual? I mean, apart from the costume?’

Bernice glanced around, taking in the dummy, the clean workbench, the perfectly arranged shelves of bright material. ‘No,’ she said finally, ‘nothing.’ Her voice shook as she spoke. Minnie was horrified to see tears glistening in her eyes.

Bernice turned away and faced the wall. ‘I’m just . . . going to call . . . I have to let people know . . . officials, maybe . . .’

Minnie felt a hand on her arm. It was Flora. ‘She needs a minute,’ Flora said. ‘She’s probably in shock. Let’s help the best way we can, by finding out what happened.’

Minnie knew Flora was right.

Minnie left Bernice to make her calls. She had to concentrate on the clues. Clues could be anything: anything that disrupted the pattern, anything that looked out of place.

Who or what could have ruined a costume inside a vault-like room?

Minnie examined the walls, while Flora looked at the costume on the dummy. Sylvie wandered outside. Had she lost interest already? Typical.

Right. Ignore Sylvie too. Clues.

The walls of the lock-up were filled to the rafters with carefully arranged colour and texture: silks and sequins, taffeta and tulle, in reds and greens and blues and purples. There were ribbons, glitter, tissue paper, craft paper, crepe paper and tracing paper – if it was paper, then Bernice had some, as well as jars of feathers and lace and fringe, arranged according to the colours of the rainbow. Minnie let her eyes wander over it all. Was any of this technicolor craft equipment a clue? It all looked like it belonged.

Flora had moved away from the dummy to look for entrances and exits. She scanned the ceiling, looking for vents, she clattered the letter box to see if she could fit more than her hand through (she couldn’t) and she searched the floor for a trapdoor. ‘The door is definitely the only way in,’ she said finally.

‘What about the costume? Any clues there?’ Minnie asked.

‘I’m not sure. Only the feathers have been affected. But then, the costume is ninety per cent feathers. Bernice has already given us a good idea of the things that damage feathers – insects, mice, chemicals, heat and light.’ She scribbled something in her notebook. ‘Let’s see what Sylvie’s got.’

Sylvie was outside, crouched with her back against the lock-up doors, staring at the ground.

She glanced their way as they climbed out of the doorway. ‘There you are. Have either of you found a clue?’

Flora shook her head.

‘Well, it’s a good job I came along today then. Look at this.’ Sylvie spread her arms to point at the ground at her feet. ‘Careful – don’t stand on them.’

All Minnie could see was dirt. She bent lower.

‘There!’

Minnie could see them now. Tiny square-ish dimples in the dirt. Heel prints? She counted six of them, in a pattern, as though someone in high-heeled shoes had stood still, but changed position a few times.

Rats.

Sylvie had found the first clue.

And her smug smile was infuriating.

Sylvie pulled out her phone and snapped photos.

Just then a huge man with arms and legs like logs lumbered past. He paused, noticing Sylvie taking snapshots of mud. He stopped. Minnie knew him – it was Big Phil. He had a lock-up a few doors down. She managed a smile, but she felt a bit embarrassed. She still remembered the time they’d had him down as a suspect in one of their cases. It had been understandable – after all, he sold fake designer perfumes that smelt of hamster wee, and diet pills that did absolutely nothing, and he wore a leather jacket and an air of menace. But they’d found out that underneath his macho exterior, Big Phil was a teddy bear.