“Spot on the fishcake, my little ducks,” replied Fidget.
They all sat down by the fire, and it was agreed that Detective Cardwell should tell them first about the strange death of Sir Walter Cross and the disappearance of his dachshund, Doughnut.
Outside the day grew darker and the snow turned thicker, while inside no one noticed a key slip off the armchair and quietly leave the room.
“Sir Walter Cross had been having unbelievably good luck on the horses,” said Detective Cardwell. “He had developed an extraordinary knack of choosing the winner in every race.”
“How did he choose the winners?” asked Emily.
“That’s a question many people would like to know the answer to,” said Detective Cardwell. “I have my suspicions. Sir Walter swore he used mathematics, that it was only a matter of understanding the numbers. But I don’t believe a word of it. There’s more here than can be seen by a human eye. I’m sure Sir Walter was being helped by someone; someone in the fairy realm. Then again, I have never known a fairy to be in debt to a human being. Usually it’s the other way ’round.” Detective Cardwell stood up and walked back and forth. “But a fairy is only allowed to grant three wishes to any one person.”
“Why?” asked Emily. “Why only three?”
“This is what I mean,” said Buster. “It’s impossible working with humans. They ask the stupidest questions.”
“It just isn’t done,” said James Cardwell. “Can you imagine the mess if fairies granted them willy-nilly?”
“Mr. Rollo made more than three wishes, and his luck turned to fish bones,” said Fidget.
Emily and Buster turned and looked at Fidget.
“Mr. Rollo?”
“Mr. Rollo, the tailor who came to see me today,” said Fidget. “His luck has gone fish-belly-up and rather smelly, if you get my drift.”
“Not really,” said Emily.
“That’s the case I took on.”
“I don’t understand,” said Emily.
“We are investigating where his good luck went and why all his wishes came true and then turned bad,” said Fidget.
Detective Cardwell’s phone bleeped.
“Buddleia,” he said, reading a text. “I’ve been called back to Scotland Yard. I think you should start with Sir Walter Cross—after all, the gentleman was murdered.” He put on his hat and coat. “I’ll have to leave the case to you to investigate. Are you up to it?”
“Yes,” said Emily firmly.
“Of course we are,” said Buster. “This is Wings & Co.”
Chapter Five
Mrs. Pauline Smith was propped up in her big brass bed, her face covered thickly with green revitalizing cream. Tomorrow her only daughter, Pandora, would finally be married. Pauline went over all the arrangements for the next day. Every little detail had been thought about, worried over, and worked out. Pan was very fussy. The church had to be just right, the tent had to be large enough for a huge sit-down dinner, and as for the wedding dress—it had been altered so many times, caused so many tears, that in the end, they had had to tell Mr. Rollo that his work wasn’t up to scratch. He had lost his magic with a needle, and the design, well, it had made Pan look like a marshmallow on a stick. All very embarrassing, thought Pauline. Only last week had they bought the perfect dress from Selfridges, at vast expense to the family fortunes. She comforted herself by saying it was all worth it. Pan had been on a miracle diet, and almost overnight, her skin, not her best feature, was blemish free. Her hair, which had always been thin and mousy, was now thick and glossy. It was amazing what self-discipline and a little exercise could do.
Harry Smith lay next to his wife, counting pound coins, all of which were flying out of his wallet. Weddings were terribly expensive. Thank goodness they only had the one girl. A pity, he thought, that Pan had chosen to marry a man with the surname Pots instead of her childhood sweetheart, Derek Lowe. Harry was fond of Derek. They both supported the same soccer team.
“Pan Pots,” he said sleepily to himself. “It doesn’t sound right. It sounds plain daft.”
As for the bride herself, she was fast asleep down the hall from her parents, her wedding dress hanging on the wardrobe door. Tomorrow all her wishes would come true. Pan’s dreams were full of flowers and Happily-Ever-Afters.
* * *
It was well past midnight, and the Smith family were now so fast asleep that none of them heard the window on the ground floor being forced open. Neither did they hear the patter of small feet on the parquet floor.
The two crooks were both on the smallish side. One was called Toff the Terrible, and the other, Elvis. Elvis had elfin features and was on the whole more delicately built than his mate, who was chubby and had a furious face with bushy blue eyebrows. Toff was definitely a goblin.
“Right house?” said Toff the Terrible.
“Yes,” replied Elvis, nervously. “I’m not sure—perhaps we should leave it.”
“Look, you sniveling elf,” said Toff, “you asked for our help, and you need our help, and you are in this deep—”
“But remember what happened last time…”
“Just get on with it,” said Toff. “We haven’t got time for your airy-fairy ways.”
Toff the Terrible pushed Elvis toward the dining room. There, on a long table covered in a white linen cloth, sat the wedding cake. It was beautifully iced and surrounded by golden plates, silver candlesticks, and bowls of roses.
“It’s a pity we aren’t doing a robbery,” said Toff. “I’d have those candlesticks.”
“No,” said Elvis. “That’s not what we agreed—”
“Come on,” said Toff. “We haven’t got all night. What’s first?”
“Oh dear, I’m not sure.”
“You don’t want me to lose my temper, now, do you? Remember what happens when I lose my temper.”
Elvis remembered all too well. He peered uneasily through the French windows into the garden. The snow was still falling, and the tent looked picture-perfect for a winter wedding.
“Better get cracking here, I suppose,” said Elvis.
“Oh, goody gumdrops,” said Toff, and disappeared.
All that could be seen of him were sparks of light, as if a top was spinning very fast around the room. Then it was done.
“I enjoyed that,” said Toff, his mouth stuffed full of wedding cake.
Elvis took out a red notebook and looked through it unhappily before licking his pencil and marking a page.
He placed the pencil behind his pointy ear and said, “You wait here. I’ll do upstairs.”
Toff the Terrible lifted Elvis off his feet.
“If you want to see it again,” he said, “make sure you do.”
Elvis floated up the stairs and along the corridor to where the bride-to-be lay snoring. Yes, unfortunately, this was the right room and the right girl. He could tell from her cascading golden hair, so thick and plentiful. He twitched his nose, then, taking his pencil from behind his ear again, crossed out something in his notebook before turning his attention to the wedding dress.
A few minutes later, he rejoined his companion, who had by now eaten most of the wedding cake and was busy munching up the flowers.
“Roses are very tasty,” Toff said. “Done?”
Elvis nodded.
And with that, the pair vanished into the night.
* * *
The morning of the wedding dawned bright and beautiful. Pan Smith, soon to be Pan Pots, woke up, rose sleepily from her bed, and went to admire herself in the mirror. At almost the same time, Pauline Smith opened the curtains to admire the tent and Harry Smith opened the dining room door to admire the wedding cake. Their joint screams could be heard all the way to the end of Mountview Drive.
Chapter Six
There was a CLOSED sign on the shop door the following day. After all, there was now more than enough work for the three of them.
Emily couldn’t wait to start. In her book on how to be a detective, she had read
that you needed to be able to make decisions, to listen, to pay attention, and to have a good sense of justice. But most important of all, you needed great dedication to the case at hand. After managing to defeat Harpella, the scariest witch of all time, Emily knew she was up to the job. The only trouble was Buster. Emily trudged upstairs again.
She had tried all morning to make Buster leave the warmth of the living room and start the investigation. He was on the sofa, reading a comic. Fidget had put on his overcoat and was ready to go, but now he was knitting, a hobby he had taken up recently. Every pattern Fidget attempted ended up in the shape of a fish.
“Cast one, purl one,” said Fidget to himself.
“What does that mean?” asked Emily.
“I’m knitting you a sweater, my little ducks.”
“Listen, we shouldn’t just be sitting here,” said Emily. “We should be investigating the crime scene.”
“I’m as ready as catnip,” said Fidget, putting down his knitting.
“Have you looked outside?” said Buster, still glued to his comic.
Emily pressed her face against the bottle-glass window. The alleyway where the shop stood was covered in a thick blanket of untrodden snow.
“A bit of bad weather shouldn’t stop—” She was interrupted by a humongous noise, as if something had exploded in the shop below. The whole building wobbled, the lights flickered, the windows rattled, and smoke rushed back down the chimney and filled the room. “Oh, Fidget,” she said in alarm, “is Harpella back?”
“Not possible, my little ducks,” said Fidget, desperately holding on to his knitting and a plate of fish paste sandwiches.
“No one panic,” said Buster, who was panicking. “The last time anyone saw the old witch, she was a purple bunny rabbit, remember? It will take her hundreds of years to get out of that pickle.”
The noise seemed to be slowly climbing the stairs toward them. Bump-bang-bump. It sounded not unlike a dragon, hissing and snorting. The detectives were frozen to the spot like three fish sticks.
Then they heard a cell phone ring and a voice say, “Sorry, deary, I got cut off. I can’t talk now, Pauline. I’m in a predicament.”
“Oh, no,” said Buster. “It’s not…”
“It is,” said Fidget.
“Is who?” asked Emily.
“The keys must have opened another drawer,” said Buster and dashed to hide behind the sofa. “I thought it was your job to keep an eye on them,” he hissed at Emily.
Emily felt this day wasn’t working out as she had expected. Yes, one of the keys was missing. It was all very annoying. She was sure this didn’t happen to proper detectives.
The door to the living room burst open, and there stood a fairy with a tea trolley.
“This is most inconvenient, deary, most inconvenient indeed,” she said to Fidget. “Pauline rang me just before I started my tea round and then … you could have given me some warning.”
“Hello, Lettice. Good to see you, my old cod.”
“Where am I?” asked Lettice.
“In Podgy Bottom, in the shop. Remember? You handed in your wings for safekeeping,” said Fidget.
“But that was a hundred years ago. I’ve moved on since then. Wings are most unsuitable for modern living. Anyway, no one takes fairies seriously these days. Have you seen what they have done to us in the media? We are pink and silly—not like the old times, when fairies were given the respect and loathing they deserved.”
Emily looked on, wonderstruck. Lettice was round, with a nose like the beak of a bird. She had a cheerful face, tied her gray hair back in a ponytail, and wore an apron over her trousers and top. Apart from her wings, she didn’t look one bit like a fairy.
“What’s with the tea trolley, dear old trout?” asked Fidget.
“I was about to hand the prime minister a gingersnap,” said Lettice, “when I was whizzed back here.”
“The prime minister?” said Emily.
“Yes, deary. I work as a tea lady in the Houses of Parliament. One could say, deary, that without me the country would go to custard creams.”
At that moment, the magic lamp came into the living room, followed by a bashful-looking key. When Lettice saw the lamp, she screamed and stood on a chair, her wings flapping.
“What’s that thing doing here?”
Since the lamp had worked for the witch Harpella, it had turned over a new gold leaf.
“Excuse me,” it said, offended. “I am now shining with good intentions. I helped a key to open your drawer. I nobly allowed it to stand on my lid. And this is all the thanks I receive.”
“It’s quite harmless,” explained Emily. “Ever since I removed the dragon’s tooth.”
“No, deary, I’m sorry, but a lamp like that can be a dangerous thing if it falls into the wrong hands. I mean, deary, you never know what magic could be stuffed inside it. And you are…?”
“Emily Vole.”
“Not the famous Emily Vole?” said Lettice. “Savior of the fairies?” Carefully she climbed down from the chair and straightened her apron. “So brave. Such a brave girl. A pleasure to meet you at last, deary, a pleasure, I’m sure.” She turned and sniffed, and sniffed again. “I see you’ve not learned any manners yet,” she said, pulling Buster out from behind the sofa by the ear. “One hundred years of being eleven, and no improvement. Haven’t you got a kiss for your Auntie Lettice?”
“Auntie?” said Emily, surprised that Buster had an auntie.
“Yes,” replied Buster. “This is my aunt, Lettice Lovage.”
Lettice sat down on the sofa. “Pour us a cuppa from the tea trolley, there’s a love,” she said. “I’m all at sixes and sevens.”
To Emily’s amazement, Buster did as he was told.
Lettice’s cell phone rang again.
“Pauline, I’m sorry, something just sprang up, so to speak.” Lettice listened for a minute. “Well, as it happens, deary, I’m in Podgy Bottom. Wait a mo.” She turned to Fidget. “How long would it take to get to Mountview Drive?”
“Not long, as the crow flies,” said Fidget.
“I’m not a crow,” said Lettice.
“You are a fairy,” Buster reminded her. “And you have your wings back, which is more than I do.”
“Pauline, deary, what number? Twenty-two.… Hang on, I can be there in no time. Are the police there now? Yes … and a doctor? Don’t panic, Pauline. Keep breathing. I’ll be with you shortly.”
“Wait,” said Emily, as Lettice stood up to leave. “What’s happened? Who’s Pauline?”
“I can’t stop, deary. Fidget, I’m parking my tea trolley here. Now, handbag … cell phone … wings.”
And with that, Lettice Lovage was gone.
Chapter Seven
The keys and the magic lamp had scampered down the stairs after Lettice. Emily followed hastily and found them dancing around in front of the curious cabinets, giggling. She couldn’t see what they found so funny. She wasn’t even sure that the keys could giggle.
“What’s the joke?” she asked the magic lamp.
“We are celebrating,” replied the lamp. “It is a big day when a key opens one of the drawers.”
Emily crouched so that she was on the same level as the keys.
“You don’t feel like opening any more drawers, do you?” she asked hopefully. The keys all stopped jumping up and down and turned to face her. “Think of all those fairies who long to have their wings back. Especially Buster.”
The keys looked as solemn as only ironmongery can.
“No,” said the magic lamp, who had become spokesperson for the keys. “It doesn’t work like that. I thought you, Emily Vole, of all people, would understand.”
“But I don’t,” said Emily. “It’s simple. They just need to open the drawers. That’s what keys do. Open things.”
There was an uncomfortable silence, then, with an air of injured pride, the magic lamp, followed by a single file of keys, walked back up the stairs.
Emily st
ared out of the shop window and thought to herself that being Keeper of the Keys wasn’t all it was cracked up to be. She was just about to join the others when she saw a small dog. It was making leaps in the snow in an effort to reach the shop door. Emily went outside. The little fellow had huge chunks of snow frozen to his fur. She lifted him up and brushed him down. His name tag read DOUGHNUT. Emily ran back inside and up the stairs to the living room, clutching the first breakthrough in the murder of Sir Walter Cross.
“Look who I’ve found,” she said.
“If it’s another aunt, I don’t want to know,” said Buster, his nose still in a comic.
“It’s Doughnut,” said Emily, taking the poor frozen hound to the fire and plopping him down on the rug.
The second that Doughnut saw Fidget, he started to bark as if his life depended on it.
“Oh, for goodness’ sake! Quiet, Bonzo,” said Buster.
“Woff. Gree-ahhhh woof,” said Fidget.
Doughnut stopped in mid-bark.
Emily and Buster looked at Fidget.
“You speak Dog?” said Buster.
“Only a smattering,” said Fidget modestly. “All cats have to have the basics. It comes with the Nine Lives package.”
“What did you say to him?” asked Emily.
“Put a fishbone in it.”
“Can he tell us what happened to Sir Walter Cross?”
At the mention of his master’s name, Doughnut was up on all fours, tail wagging, nose pointed. He stared at the living room door, head on one side, as if he expected his master to walk through it at any minute.
“Sir Walter’s not coming back,” said Emily, and tried to comfort him.
“He won’t understand,” said Buster. “You don’t speak Dog.”
Doughnut looked at Buster, and Emily was certain that she saw a glint in the dog’s eye. A not-altogether-friendly glint.
Then the little chap jumped into the air, landed on the carpet, and rolled over dead.
“Oh no,” said Emily, bending over him. Doughnut was lying on his side, his whole body stiff, his paws outstretched. “You don’t think he’s died of cold?”
Three Pickled Herrings: Book Two Page 2